* 
i 

UC-NRLF 


KATIONAT,   ANIMALS. 


YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN; 


OE, 


A  STORY  TO   SHOW  HOW  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  LEARNED  THE  PRINCIPLES 

WHICH  RAISED   HIM  FROM   A  PRINTER'S  BOY  TO  THE  FIRST 

EMBAS6ADOR  OF  THE   AMERICAN  REPUBLIC. 

A  BOY'S  BOOK  ON  A  BOY'S  OWN  SUBJECT. 


BY 


HENRY  MAYHEW, 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  PEASANT-BOY  PHILOSOPHER,"  UTHE  WONDERS  or 

SCIENCE  ;    OR,   YOUNG  HUMPHREY  DAVY,"  &C.,  &C. 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  JOHN  GILBERT, 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN     8QUAKE. 

1862. 


"But  the  work  shall  not  be  lost."— Passage  from  the  Epitaph  of 
Benjamin  Franklin,  written  by  himself. 

"  It's  hard  for  an  empty  sack  to  stand  upright."— Pro  wr&  from  Poor 
Richard's  Almanac. 


TO  THE 


EIGHT  HON.  EDWAED  HENEY, 

LOKD  STANLEY,  M.P.,  ETC.,  ETC.,  ETC. 

MY  LOKD, — You  have  been  so  uniformly  kind 
to  me  in  my  labors  upon  social  matters,  that,  as 
the  present)  book  treats  of  subjects  in  which  you 
have  always  taken  a  lively  interest,  I  have  avail 
ed  myself  of  this  opportunity  of  expressing  my 
gratitude  to  you,  and  of  assuring  you  that  I  am, 
my  lord,  yours,  with  every  sentiment  of  esteem 
for  your  friendship  and  admiration  for  your  gen 
ius, 

HENRY  MAYHEW. 

3  Kensington  Square,  17th  December. 


PREFACE. 


IT  was  Walter  Scott  who  first  raised  his  voice 
against  the  folly  of  writing  down  to  the  child, 
saying,  wisely  enough,  that  the  true  object  among 
authors  for  the  young  should  be  to  write  the 
child  up  to  the  man.  As  people  talk  broken  En 
glish  to  Frenchmen,  and  nurses  prattle  the  baby 
dialect  to  babies,  so  it  was  once  thought  that  boys' 
books  should  be  essentially  puerile — as  puerile  in 
subject  and  puerile  in  style  as  the  tales  about 
"  Don't-care  Harry"  (who  was  torn  to  pieces  by 
a  hungry  lion  merely  because  he  would  persist  in 
declaring  that  he  "didn't  care"  about  certain 
things  in  life),  and  such-like  tender  bits  of  ver 
dure  that  used  to  grace  the  good  old  English 
spelling-books  of  some  quarter  of  a  century  back. 

Conformably  to  the  Walter  Scott  theory,  this 
volume  has  not  been  penned  with  the  object  of 
showing  boys  the  delight  of  slaying  a  buffalo  or 
a  bison,  nor  yet  with  the  view  of  impressing  upon 
them  the  nobility  of  fighting  or  fagging  at  school. 
The  one  purpose  of  the  book  is  to  give  young 
men  some  sense  of  the  principles  that  should 
guide  a  prudent,  honorable,  generous,  and  refined 
gentleman  through  the  world.  It  does  not  pre- 


viii  PREFACE. 

tend  to  teach  youth  the  wonders  of  optics,  chem 
istry,  or  astronomy,  but  to  open  young  eyes  to 
the  universe  of  beauty  that  encompasses  every 
enlightened  spirit,  and  to  give  the  young  knights 
of  the  present  day  some  faint  idea  of  the  chivalry 
of  life,  as  well  as  to  develop  in  them  some  little 
sense  of,  and  taste  for,  the  poetry  of  action  and 
the  grace  of  righteous  conduct. 

It  has  long  appeared  to  the  author  that  the 
modern  system  of  education  is  based  on  the  fal 
lacy  that  to  manufacture  a  wise  man  is  necessari 
ly  to  rear  a  good  one.  The  intellect,  however,  is 
but  the  servant  of  the  conscience  (the  impulses  or 
propensities  of  mankind  being  merely  the  execu 
tive,  rather  than  the  governing  and  originating 
faculty  of  our  natures) ;  and  hence  the  grand  mis 
take  of  the  teachers  of  our  time  has  been  to  de 
velop  big  brains  at  the  cost  of  little  hearts — to 
cram  with  science  and  to  ignore  poetry — to  force 
the  scholar  with  a  perfect  hot-bed  of  languages, 
and  yet  to  stunt  the  worthy  with  an  utter  want 
of  principle ;  in  fine,  to  rear  Palmers,  Dean  Pauls, 
Redpaths,  Davisons,  Robsons,  Hughes,  Watts, 
and  a  whole  host  of  well-educated  and  hypocrit 
ical  scoundrels,  rather  than  a  race  of  fine  upright 
gentlemen.  Society,  however,  seems  to  have  had 
its  fill  of  the  mechanics'  institute  mania;  the 
teachy-preachy  fever  appears  to  have  come  to  a 
crisis ;  and,  in  the  lull  of  the  phrensy,  the  author 
of  the  present  book  wishes  to  say  his  say  upon 
the  means  of  worldly  welfare,  the  laws  of  worldly 


PREFACE.  ix 

happiness,  and  the  rules  of  worldly  duty  to  the 
young  men  of  the  present  generation. 

As  to  the  handling  of  the  subject,  some  expla 
nation  is  needed.  Uncle  Benjamin,  who  is  made 
the  expounder  of  the  Franklinian  philosophy  to 
the  boy  Benjamin  himself,  is  not  a  purely  imagi 
nary  character.  He  has  been  elaborated  into 
greater  importance  here,  certainly,  than  he  as 
sumes  in  the  biography  of  his  nephew ;  but  this 
has  been  done  upon  that  Shaksperian  rule  of  art, 
which  often  throws  an  internal  moral  principle 
into  an  external  dramatis  persona ;  and  as  the 
witches  in  Macbeth  are  merely  the  outward  em 
bodiment,  in  a  weird  and  shadowy  form,  of  Mac- 
beth's  own  ambition,  and  have  obviously  been  in 
troduced  into  the  play  with  the  view  of  giving  a 
kind  of  haunted  and  fatalistic  air  to  a  bloody  and 
devouring  passion  (a  passion,  indeed,  that,  if  rep 
resented  really  and  crudely,  rather  than  ideally 
and  grandly,  as  it  is,  would  have  made  the  trag 
edy  an  object  of  execration  instead  of  sympathy 
— a  bit  of  filthy  literality  out  of  the  Royal  New 
gate  Calendar,  instead  of  a  fine  supernatural  bit 
of  fate,  overshadowed  with  the  same  sense  of 
doom  as  an  old  Greek  play)  ;  even  so,  in  a  small 
way,  has  Uncle  Ben  here  been  made  the  expo 
nent  of  the  Franklin  view  of  life,  rather  than  his 
nephew  Benjamin  to  be  the  first  to  conceive  and 
develop  it.  Some  may  urge  that,  by  this  means, 
the  genius  of  Franklin  is  reduced  from  its  origi 
nal,  cast-iron,  economic  character,  to  a  mere  sec- 


x  PREFACE. 

ond-rate  form  of  prudential  mind.  Nevertheless, 
there  must  have  been  some  reason  for  the  printer- 
embassador's  "  Poor  Richardism ;"  say  it  was  or 
ganization,  temperament,  or  idiosyncrasy,  if  you 
will,  that  made  him  the  man  he  was ;  still  the 
replication  to  such  a  plea  is,  that  even  these  are 
now  acknowledged  to  be  more  or  less  derivative 
qualities,  in  which  the  family  type  is  often  found 
either  exaggerated  into  genius  or  dwarfed  into 
idiocy.  Hence  it  is  believed  that  no  very  great 
historic  violence  has  been  committed  here  in  mak 
ing  a  member  of  the  Franklin  family  the  father 
of  Benjamin  Franklin's  character,  even  as  his  par 
ents  were  assuredly  the  progenitors  of  his  "  lithi- 
asis."  Moreover,  Uncle  Benjamin  was  his  god 
father,  and  that  in  the  days  when  godfathership 
was  regarded  as  a  far  different  duty  (the  duty  of 
moral  and  religious  supervision)  from  the  mere 
bit  of  silver-spoon-and-fork-odand  that  it  is  now. 
Again,  from  the  printer's  own  description  of  the 
character  of  his  uncle,  it  is  plain  that  Uncle  Ben 
was  not  the  man  to  ignore  any  duty  he  had  taken 
upon  himself.  Besides,  the  old  man  lived  in  the 
house  with  Benjamin's  father,  and  had  himself 
only  one  son  (who  was  grown  up  and  settled  as 
a  cutler  in  the  town) ;  so  that,  as  the  uncle  was 
comparatively  childless,  it  has  been  presumed  that 
the  instinctive  fondness  of  age  for  youth  might 
have  led  the  old  boy  to  be  taken  with  the  bud 
ding  intellect  and  principles  of  his  little  nephew 
and  namesake,  and  thus  to  have  exceeded  his 


PREFACE.  xi 

sponsorial  duties  so  far  as  to  have  become  the 
boy's  best  friend  and  counselor,  loving  him  like  a 
son,  and  training  him  like  a  novice.  Farther  we 
know  that  Uncle  Benjamin  was  a  man  of  some 
observation  and  learning ;  he  appears  also  to  have 
been  a  person  of  considerable  leisure,  and  perhaps 
of  some  little  means  (for  we  do  not  hear  of  his 
following  any  occupation  in  America) ;  so  that, 
when  we  remember  how  slight  is  the  addition 
that  even  the  profoundest  geniuses  make  to  the 
knowledge-fund  of  the  world,  and  how  little  ad 
vance  those  who  take  even  the  longest  strides 
make  upon  such  as  have  gone  before  them,  we 
can  not  but  admit  that  Franklin  must  have  got 
the  substratum  of  his  knowledge  and  principles 
somewhere — since,  born  under  different  circum 
stances,  he  would  have  been  a  wholly  different 
man.  Surely,  then,  there  is  no  great  offense  of 
fered  to  truth  in  endeavoring  to  explain  artistic 
ally  how  Benjamin  Franklin  became  the  man  he 
was,  nor  any  great  wrong  done  to  history  in  using 
Uncle  Ben  as  the  means  of  making  out  to  youths 
what  was  the  peculiar  "  Old  Richard"  philosophy 
that  distinguished  the  printer-sage  in  after  life. 
The  main  object  was  to  give  the  young  reader  a 
sense  of  the  early  teachings  Benjamin  Franklin 
when  a  boy  might  have  received  (and  doubtlessly 
did  receive)  from  his  old  Non-conformist  uncle, 
and  accordingly  the  latter  has  been  made,  if  not 
the  virtual  hero,  at  least  the  prime  mover  of  the 
incidents  in  the  present  book. 


xii  PREFACE. 

Those  critics  who  know  the  difficulties  of  the 
problem  with  which  the  author  has  had  to  deal — 
who  are  acquainted  with  the  many  speculations 
that  have  been  advanced  as  to  the  seat  and  sources 
of  the  intellectual  and  other  pleasures  of  our  na 
ture,  will  readily  discern  that  the  principles  here 
enunciated  have  not  been  "  decanted"  out  of  pre 
vious  aesthetic  treatises,  but  are  peculiar  to  the 
present  work,  and  spring — naturally,  it  is  hoped 
— from  the  idiosyncrasy  of  the  characters  enun 
ciating  them.  Again,  it  is  but  fair  to  enforce  that 
the  views  here  given  as  to  the  means  by  which 
labor  is  made  pleasant  have  sprung  out  of  the 
author's  previous  investigations  rather  than  his 
readings,  and  so,  indeed,  has  that  part  of  the  book 
which  seeks  to  impress  the  reader  with  a  livelier 
sense  of  the  claims  of  the  luckless,  and  even  the 
criminal,  to  our  respect  and  earnest  consideration. 
Principles,  in  fine,  that  have  cost  the  author  a  life 
to  acquire,  are  often  expressed  in  a  chapter,  and 
expressed,  it  is  hoped,  sufficiently  in  keeping  with 
the  current  of  the  story  to  render  it  difficult  for 
the  reader  to  detect  where  the  function  of  dram 
atizing  ends  and  that  of  propounding  begins. 

The  "jail  proper"  described  in  this  book  is 
hardly  the  jail  proper  belonging  to  little  Benja 
min  Franklin's  time. 

Nor  has  the  deviation  from  historic  propriety 
been  made  unadvisedly.  It  is  generally  as  idle  as 
it  is  morbid  to  paint  past  horrors.  To  have  set 
forth  the  atrocities  and  iniquities  practiced  in  the 


PREFACE.  xiii 

British  jails  a  century  and  a  half  ago  would  have 
been  following  in  the  track  of  the  pernicious 
French  school  of  literature,  where  every  thing  is 
sacrificed  to  melodramatic  intensity,  and  which  is 
forever  striving  to  excite  a  spasm  rather  than 
gratify  a  taste. 

The  genius  of  true  English  landscape  painting, 
on  the  contrary,  is  "  repose ;"  and  the  genius  of 
modern  English  poetry  is  "  repose"  too — a  kind 
of  Sabbath  feeling  which  turns  the  heart  from  the 
grossnesses  and  vanities  of  human  life,  and  lets 
the  work-day  spirit  loose  among  the  quiet,  shady, 
and  healthful  beauties  of  nature.  The  intense 
school  and  the  repose  school  are  the  two  far-dis 
tant  extremes  of  all  art,  and  they  differ  as  much 
from  each  other  as  the  sweet  refreshment  of  an 
evening  by  one's  own  fireside  does  from  the  heat 
ed  stimulus  of  a  tavern  debauch. 

For  these  artistic  reasons,  then,  the  dead  bones 
of  the  old  jail  iniquities  and  cruelties  have  not 
been  disinterred  and  set  up  as  a  bugaboo  here. 
Such  a  picture  might  have  been  true  to  the  time, 
but  mere  literal  truth  is  a  poor  thing  after  all. 
Why,  Gustave  le  Gray's  wonderful  photograph  of 
the  Sunlight  on  the  Sea,  that  is  hanging  before 
our  eyes  as  we  write,  is  as  true  as  "  Hangnail's 
Questions;"  and  yet  what  a  picturesque  barba 
rism,  and  even  falsity  it  is !  It  no  more  renders 
what  only  human  genius  can  seize  and  paint — the 
expression,  the  feeling,  the  soul  of  such  a  scene — 
than  the  camera  obscura  can  fac-simile  the  human 


xiv  PBEFACB. 

eye  in  a  portrait,  or  give  us  the  faintest  glimmer 
of  the  high  Vandyke  quality — the  profound  think 
ing,  talking  pupils  of  that  grand  old  countenance 
in  our  National  Gallery. 

But  the  real  object  which  the  author  of  this 
book  had  in  view  was  to  wake  not  only  his  boy 
hero  up  to  a  sense  of  duty,  but  other  boys  also, 
and  to  let  them  know  (even  without  doing  any 
great  violence  to  the  natural  truth  of  things)  what 
prison  iniquities  are  still  daily  wrought  in  the  land 
in  which  we  live.  The  jail  proper  of  the  present 
story  (though  the  scene  is  laid  in  British  Amer 
ica  before  the  declaration  of  Independence,  and 
dates  a  century  and  a  half  back)  is  a  mere  tran 
script  of  a  well-known  jail  now  standing  in  the 
first  city  in  the  world  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one 
thousand  eight  hundred  and  sixty.  The  details 
given  here  are  the  bare  literalities  noted  by  the 
author  only  a  few  months  back,  and  printed  in  his 
account  of  the  metropolitan  prisons  in  that  wretch 
ed  fragment  of  a  well-meant  scheme,  the  "  Great 
World  of  London."  There,  if  the  skeptic  needs 
proof,  he  can  get  chapter  and  verse,  and  learn 
that  many  of  the  facts  here  given  were  recorded 
in  the  presence  of  some  of  the  visiting  justices 
themselves.  Jails  may  have  been  bad  a  hundred 
years  ago,  but  this  plague-spot  of  the  first  city  in 
the  world  seems  to  the  author  worse  than  all,  be 
cause  it  still  goes  on  after  Howard's  labors — after 
Brougham's  reforms— after  Sheriff  Watson's  fine 
industrial  schools ;  yes,  there  it  stands,  giving  the 


PREFACE. 


lie  to  all  our  May -day  meetings,  our  ragged 
schools,  our  city  missions,  and  pretended  love  of 
the  destitute,  the  weak,  and  the  suffering.  We 
no  longer  wonder  that  the  atrocities  of  the  French 
Bastille  roused  the  Parisian  people  to  rush  off  in 
a  body  and  tumble  the  old  prison-citadel  down 
into  a  heap  of  ruins ;  and  if  Tothill  Fields  lay 
across  the  Channel,  the  same  indignant  outrage 
might  perhaps  be  again  enacted.  But  here,  good 
easy  citizens  as  we  are,  we  pay  our  poor-rates ; 
we  call  ourselves  miserable  sinners,  in  a  loud 
voice,  once  a  week,  from  a  cosy  pew ;  our  "  good 
lady"  belongs  to  a  district  visiting  society,  and 
distributes  tracts  in  the  back  slums ;  we  put  our 
check  into  the  plate,  after  a  bottle  or  two  of  port, 
at  a  charity  dinner;  and,  this  done,  we  are  self- 
content. 

We  once  passed  a  quiet  half  hour  with  Mr.  Cal- 
craft,  the  hangman,  and  in  the  course  of  the  con 
versation  he  alluded  to  Mrs.  Calcraft !  The  words 
no  sooner  fell  upon  the  ear  than  a  world  of  won 
der  filled  the  brain.  Even  he,  then,  had  some 
body  to  care  about  him.  There  was  somebody 
to  hug  and  caress  him  before  he  left  his  home  in 
that  scratch  wig  and  fur  cap  in  which  we  saw 
him  come  disguised  to  Newgate  (for  the  "roughs" 
had  threatened  to  shoot  him),  and  carrying  that 
small  ominous  satchel  basket,  at  two  in  the  morn 
ing,  on  the  day  of  Bousfield's  execution. 

The  wretched  lads  in  Tothill  Fields  prison  are 
worse  off  than  Calcraft  himself.  They  have  no 
body  in  the  world  to  care  about  them. 


xvi  PJBEFACE. 

Nobody !  Yet,  stay,  we  forget ;  there  is  tins 
same  Calcraft  to  look  after  a  good  many  of  them. 

In  fine — to  drop  the  author  and  speak  in  pro- 
prid  persona — I  have  attempted  to  write  a  book 
which,  while  it  treated  of  some  subject  that  a  boy 
would  be  likely  to  attend  to,  should  at  the  same 
time  admit  of  enunciating  such  principles  as  I 
wished  my  own  boy,  and  other  boys  as  good,  and 
as  honest,  and  earnest  as  he,  to  carry  with  them 
through  life ;  and  yet  I  have  striven,  while  writing 
it,  to  do  no  positive  violence  to  truth  either  in  the 
love  of  one's  art  or  in  the  heat  of  one's  "  purpose." 
In  plain  English,  I  have  sought  to  be  consistent 
to  nature — true  to  the  spirit,  perhaps,  rather  than 
the  letter  of  things — even  though  I  had  a  pecul 
iar  scheme  to  work  out.  And  now,  such  as  it  is, 
I  give  the  present  volume  to  the  youth  of  the 
time,  in  the  hope  that  it  may  serve  them  for  what 
I  myself  felt  the  want  of  more  than  any  thing- 
after  leaving  Westminster  School,  as  a  young 
man  crammed  to  the  tip  of  one's  tongue  with 
Latin  and  Greek  and  nothing  else,  viz.,  for  some 
thing  like  a  guide  to  what  Uncle  Ben  calls  "  the 
right  road  through  life." 

HY.M/ 


YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN, 


PAKT  I. 

YOUNG   BEN'S   LOVE    OF    THE    SEA,  AND   HO~W   HE 
WAS   WEANED   FKOM   IT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

EVER  SHALL  WE  DO  WITH  THE  BOY?" 

A  PEETTY  chubby-faced  boy,  with  a  pair  of 
cheeks  rosy  and  plump  as  ripe  peaches,  was  Mas 
ter  Benjamin  Franklin  in  his  teens. 

Dressed  in  a  tiny  three-cornered  hat,  a  very 
small  pair  of  "smalls,"  or  knee-breeches,  and  a 
kind  of  little,  stiff-skirted,  fan-tailed  surtout,  he 
looked  like  a  Greenwich  pensioner  in  miniature, 
or  might  have  been  mistaken  (had  the  colors  been 
gayer)  for  the  little  fat  fairy  coachman  to  Cinde 
rella's  state  carriage. 

It  would  have  made  a  pretty  picture  to  have 
handed  down  to  our  time  could  an  artist  have 
sketched  the  boy,  as  he  sat  beside  his  toy  ship,  in 
the  old-fashioned,  dark  back  parlor  behind  the  tal 
low-chandler's  store,  "  at  the  corner  of  Hanover 
and  Union  Streets,"  in  the  city  of  Boston,  New 
England. 

Over  the  half  curtain  of  a  glass  door  a  long  deep 
fringe  of  white  candles,  varied  with  heavy,  tassel- 
like  bunches  of  "  sixes"  and  "  eights,"  might  be 
seen  dangling  from  the  rafters  of  the  adjoining 
B 


18  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

shop,  with  here  aud  there  several  small  stacks  of 
yellow  and  white  soap,  in  ingot-like  bars,  ranged 
along  the  upper  shelves ;  and  the  eye  could  also 
catch  glimpses  of  the  square  brown  paper  cap 
which  crowned  the  head  of  Josiah  Franklin  (the 
proprietor  of  the  establishment,  and  father  of  our 
Benjamin)  wandering  busily  about,  as  the  shop- 
bell  was  heard  to  tinkle-tinkle  with  the  arrival  of 
fresh  customers,  seeking  supplies  of  the  "best 
mottled"  or  "  dips." 

The  back  parlor  itself,  being  lighted  only  from 
the  shop,  was  dim  as  a  theatre  by  day,  so  that  all 
around  was  wrapped  in  the  rich  transparent 
brown  shade  of  what  artists  call  "  clear  obscure." 
The  little  light  pervading  the  room  shone  in  faint 
lustrous  patches  upon  the  bright  pewter  platters 
and  tin  candlesticks  that  were  arranged  as  orna 
ments  on  the  narrow  wooden  mantelpiece,  while 
it  sparkled  in  spots  in  one  corner  of  the  apartment, 
where,  after  a  time,  the  eye  could  just  distinguish 
a  few  old  china  cups  and  drinking-glasses  set  out 
on  the  shelves  of  the  triangular  cupboard. 

In  this  little  room  sat  Benjamin's  mother,  spin 
ning  till  the  walls  hummed  like  a  top  with  the 
drone  of  her  wheel,  and  his  sister  Deborah,  who 
was  busy  making  a  mainsail  for  the  boy's  cutter 
out  of  an  old  towel,  now  that  she  had  finished 
setting  the  earthen  porringers  for  the  family  sup 
per  of  bread  and  milk ;  while  young  Ben  himself 
appeared  surrounded  with  a  litter  of  sticks  intend 
ed  for  masts  and  yards,  and  whipcord  for  rigging, 
and  with  the  sailless  hull  of  his  home-made  vessel 
standing  close  beside  him  on  its  little  stocks  (made 
out  of  an  inverted  wooden  footstool),  and  seem 
ing  as  if  ready  to  be  "  laid  up  in  ordinary" — un 
der  the  dresser. 

The  boy  had  grown  tired  of  his  daily  work ;  for 
the  candle-wicks  which  his  father  had  set  him  to 


"  WHAT    SHALL    WE    DO    WITH    THE    BOY  ?"       19 

cut  lay  in  tufts  about  the  deck  of  his  boat,  and  the 
few  snips  of  cotton  on  the  sanded  floor  told  how 
little  of  his  task  he  had  done  since  dinner-time.* 
Indeed,  it  did  not  require  much  sagacity  to  per 
ceive  that  Benjamin  hated  the  unsavory  pursuits 
of  soap-boiling  and  candle-making,  and  delighted 
in  the  more  exciting  enterprises  of  shipping  and 
seafaring.  On  the  bench  at  his  elbow  was  the 
bundle  of  rushes  that  had  been  given  him  to  trim, 
in  readiness  for  what  was  his  especial  horror — the 
approaching  "melting-day,"  together  with  the 
frame  of  pewter  moulds  that  required  to  be  clean 
ed  for  the  new  stock  of"  cast  candles."  But  both 
of  these  were  in  the  same  state  as  he  had  received 
them  in  the  morning;  whereas  the  coat  of  the 
boy,  and  the  ground  all  about  him,  were  speckled 
with  chips  from  the  old  broomstick  that  he  had 
been  busy  shaping  into  a  main-mast  for  his  minia 
ture  yacht,  and  near  at  hand  were  two  small  pip 
kins  filled  with  a  pennyworth  of  black  and  white 
paint,  with  which  he  had  been  striping  the  sides 
of  the  little  vessel,  and  printing  the  name  of  the 

"  FLYING  DUTCHMAN,  OF  BOSTON,"  Upon  her  Stem. 

The  craft  itself  did  no  small  credit  to  young 
Benjamin's  skill  as  a  toy  ship-builder,  though  cer 
tainly  her  "  lines"  were  more  in  the  washing-tub 
style  of  naval  architecture  than  the  "  wave-princi 
ple"  of  modern  American  clippers ;  for  the  hull 

*  "At  ten  years  old," are  Franklin's  own  words,  given  in 
the  history  of  his  boyhood,  written  by  himself,  "I  was  taken 
to  help  my  father  in  his  business,  which  was  that  of  a  tallow- 
chandler  and  soap-boiler — a  business  to  which  he  was  not 
bred,  but  had  assumed  on  his  arrival  in  New  England,  be 
cause  he  found  that  his  dyeing  trade,  being  in  little  request, 
would  not  maintain  his  family.  Accordingly,  I  was  employ 
ed  in  cutting  wicks  for  the  candles,  filling  the  moulds  for 
'  cast  candles,'  attending  to  the  shop,  and  going  errands,  etc." 
At  the  opening  of  our  story,  the  lad  is  supposed  to  have  been 
some  time  at  this  trade. 


-0  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

was  fashioned  after  the  shape  of  the  Dutch  "  dog 
ger-boats"  in  the  Boston  harbor,  and  had  the  ap 
pearance  of  an  enormous  wooden  shoe. 

It  had  taken  one  of  the  largest  logs  from,  the 
wood-house  to  build  the  boat,  for  she  was  the  size 
of  a  doll's  cradle  at  least.  It  had  cost  no  little 
trouble,  too,  and  broken  not  a  few  gouges  in  hol 
lowing  out  a  "  hold"  for  her — even  as  big  as  a  pie- 
dish  ;  and  now  that  the  mighty  task  had  been  ac 
complished,  she  had  sufficient  capacity  under  her 
hatches  to  carry  a  crew  of  white  mice,  and  might, 
on  an  emergency,  have  stowed  away  victuals 
for  a  squirrel  skipper  to  winter  upon. 

Yet,  in  his  heart,  Benjamin  found  little  pleasure 
in  the  amusement.  He  knew  he  was  neglecting 
his  work  for  it ;  he  knew,  too,  that  his  half-Puri 
tan  father  regarded  disobedience  as  the  prime 
cause  of  all  error,  so  that  playing  at  such  a  time 
was,  after  all,  but  sorry,  deadly-lively  sport  to  him. 
Instead  of  being  delighted  with  the  pastime,  he 
went  about  it  in  fear  and  trembling — with  one  eye 
on  the  miniature  mast  he  was  shaping,  and  the 
other  intently  watching  the  movements  of  the 
dreaded  brown  paper  cap  in  the  shop  without. 
Every  turn  of  the  door-handle  made  his  little  heart 
flutter  like  a  newly-trapped  bird,  and  every  ap 
proaching  footstep  was  like  the  click  of  a  pistol 
in  his  ear;  so  that  the  stick  almost  fell  from  his 
hand  involuntarily  with  the  fright,  and  the  candle- 
wicks  and  scissors  were  suddenly  snatched  up  in 
stead,  while  an  air  of  the  most  intense  industry 
was  assumed  for  the  time  being. 

Indeed,  the  boy's  life  of  late  had  been  one  con 
tinual  struggle  and  fight  between  his  inclinations 
and  his  duty.  For  the  last  two  years  he  had  been 
supposed  to  be  engaged  at  his  father's  business, 
though,  from  the  work  being  any  thing  but  a  "  la 
bor  of  love"  to  him,  he  had  really  been  occupied 


"WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO  WITH  THE  BOY?"     21 

with  other  things.  He  was  forever  longing  to 
get  away  to  sea,  and  nothing  delighted  him  but 
what,  so  to  speak,  smacked  of  "the  tar;"  where 
as  he  sickened  at  the  smell  of  the  "  melting-days," 
and  the  mere  sight  of  the  tallow  was  associated 
in  his  mind  with  a  youthful  horror  of  mutton  fat.* 

Born  and  bred  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the 
beautiful  Bay  of  Massachusetts,  his  earliest  games 
Avith  the  children  of  his  acquaintance  had  been  in 
jumping  from  barge  to  barge  alongside  the  quay, 
and  ever  since  the  little  fellow  had  been  breeched 
he  had  been  able  to  scull  a  boat  across  the  "  ba 
sin,"  while  in  his  schoolhood  he  and  his  cronies 
were  sure  every  holiday  to  be  out  sailing  or  row 
ing  over  to  some  one  of  the  hundred  islands  that 
dappled  the  blue  expanse  of  water  round  about 
the  city. 

Steering  had  been  the  boy's  first  exercise  of 
power,  and  the  pleasure  the  little  cockswain  had 
felt  in  making  the  boat  answer  as  readily  as  his 
own  muscles  to  his  will  had  charmed  him  with 
the  sailor's  life,  while  the  danger  connected  with 
the  pursuit  served  only  to  increase  the  delight  of 
triumphing  over  the  difficulties.  Again,  to  his 
young  fancy,  a  ship  at  sea  seemed  as  free  as  the 
gull  in  the  airf  (though  it  has  been  well  said,  on 
the  contrary,  that  a  ship  is  a  "  prison  without  any 

*  "I  disliked  the  trade,"  Franklin  tells  us  himself,  in  the 
account  of  his  early  life,  "and  had  a  strong  inclination  to 
go  to  sea ;  my  father,  however,  declared  against  it.  But,  re 
siding  near  the  water,  I  was  much  in  it  and  on  it.  I  learn 
ed  to  swim  well,  and  to  manage  boats;  and  when  embarked 
with  other  boys  I  was  commonly  allowed  to  govern,  especial 
ly  in  case  of  any  difficulty." 

f  The  writer  (who  was  a  midshipman  in  his  youth)  would 
seriously  advise  boys  to  abandon  all  such  silly  notions  as  to 
the  pleasures  of  a  sailor's  life,  for  he  can  conscientiously  say 
that  it  is  not  only  the  hardest  and  most  perilous  of  all  call 
ings,  but  one  in  which  the  living,  the  housing,  and  the  gains 
are  of  the  poorest  possible  kind. 


22  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

chance  of  escape").  ISTor  did  he  ever  see  a  ves 
sel,  with  its  white  pouty  sails,  glide  like  a  snowy 
summer  cloud  across  the  bay  toward  the  silver 
ling  of  the  horizon  without  wandering  what  the 
sailors  would  find  beyond  it,  and  longing  to  be 
with  the  crew,  to  visit  strange  countries  and  peo 
ple,  and  see  what  the  earth  was  like,  and  whether 
it  was  really  true  that  there  was  no  end  to  the 
world,  nor  any  place  where  one  could  stand  on 
the  brink  of  it,  and  look  down  into  the  great  well 
of  space  below. 

For  the  last  hour  or  two,  however,  the  youth 
had  laid  aside  his  ship  tools,  and,  having  given  his 
sister  instructions  about  the  sail  she  had  promised 
to  make  for  him,  had  taken  from  his  pocket  the 
book  which  his  brother-in-law.  Captain  Holmes — 
he  who  had  married  his  half-sister  Ruth,  and  was 
master  of  a  sloop — had  brought  him  that  day  (as 
lie  ran  in  at  dinner-time  just  to  shake  hands  with 
them  all),  on  his  return  from  his  last  voyage  to  En 
gland.  Benjamin  had  been  burning  to  read  the  vol 
ume  all  the  day  long ;  for  it  was  entitled  "  The  Ad 
ventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  Mariner,  by  Daniel 
De  Foe"  and  the  captain  had  told  him  that  it  had 
"  only  just  been  published  in  London"  at  the  time 
when  he  had  set  sail  from  that  port. 

From  his  earliest  childhood  the  little  fellow  had 
been  "  passionately  fond"  of  reading,  and  all  the 
halfpence  his  big  brothers  and  his  Uncle  Benja 
min  gave  him  he  was  accustomed  to  devote  to 
the  purchase  of  books.*  A  new  book,  therefore, 

*  "From  my  infancy,"  says  our  hero,  in  the  narrative  of 
his  boyhood,  "I  was  passionately  fond  of  reading,  and  all 
the  money  that  came  into  my  hands  was  laid  out  in  the  pur 
chasing  of  books.  I  was  very  fond  of  voyages.  ...  My  fa 
ther's  little  library  consisted  chiefly  of  works  on  polemic  di 
vinity,  most  of  which  I  read.  I  have  often  regretted  that, 
at  a  time  when  I  had  such  a  thirst  for  knowledge,  more 


"  WHAT   SHALL  WE    DO    WITH    THE    BOY  ?"       23 

was  the  greatest  treat  that  could  possibly  have 
been  offered  him,  and  such  a  one  as  his  brother- 
in-law  had  brought  him  (for  he  had  already  turn 
ed  over  the  leaves,  and  seen  that  it  was  about  a 
sailor  cast  away  on  a  desert  island)  was  more  than 
he  could  keep  his  eyes  off  till  bedtime. 

It  had  been  like  a  red-hot  coal  in  his  pocket  all 
day. 

So,  now  that  his  mast  was  "  stepped,"  and  Deb 
orah  was  getting  on  with  the  sail,  young  Benja 
min  had  got  the  volume  spread  open  on  his  knees, 
and  was  too  deeply  absorbed  in  the  marvelous 
history  of  Crusoe's  strange  island  life  to  think 
either  of  the  wicks,  the  rushes,  or  the  mould  for 
the  "  cast  candles,"  or  even  the  punishment  that 
surely  awaited  him  for  his  neglect. 

Again  and  again  his  mother  had  entreated  him 
to  put  down  the  volume  and  go  on  with  the 
wicks. 

"  Benjamin,"  she  would  cry  aloud,  to  rouse  the 
lad  from  the  trance  he  had  fallen  into,  "  do  give 
over  reading  till  after  work-time,  there's  a  good 
child !" 

The  eager  boy,  however,  sat  with  his  nose  al 
most  buried  in  the  leaves,  and,  without  raising  his 
eyes  from  the  book,  merely  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  read  to  the  end  of  "  that  chapter ;"  though  no 
sooner  was  one  finished  than  the  pages  were  turn 
ed  over  to  learn  the  length  of  the  next,  and  an 
other  begun. 

"I  wish  Captain  Holmes  had  never  brought 
you  the  book!"  the  kind-hearted  mother  would 
exclaim,  with  a  sigh,  while  she  tapped  the  treadle 
of  her  wheel  the  quicker  for  the  thought — inter- 
proper  books  had  not  fallen  in  my  way.  There  was  among 
them  '  Plutarch's  Lives,'  which  I  read  abundantly,  and  still 
think  that  time  spent  to  great  advantage.  There  was  also 
a  book  of  De  Foe's,  called  '  An  Essay  on  Projects.'  " 


24  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

jecting  the  next  minute,  as  she  heard  the  shop- 
bell  tinkle,  and  stretched  up  her  neck,  a§  usual, 
to  look  over  the  blind,  and  see  who  was  the  new 
comer  :  "  Why,  there's  your  Uncle  Benjamin  got 
back  from  meeting,  I  declare !  It  will  only  lead, 
I'm  afraid,  to  fresh  words  between  you  and  your 
father.  Your  head,  Ben,  is  too  full  of  the  sea  al 
ready,  without  any  vain  story-books  of  sailors'  ad 
ventures  to  lead  you  astray." 

"  I  am  sure  it  was  very  kind  of  the  captain," 
little  Ben  would  reply,  "  to  make  me  such  a  nice 
present ;  but  he  always  brings  every  one  of  us 
something  at  the  end  of  each  voyage.  I  can't 
talk  to  you,  though,  just  now,  mother ;  for,  if  I 
was  to  get  the  strap  for  it,  I  couldn't  break  off  in 
the  middle  of  this  story — it's  so  nice  and  interest 
ing,  you  can't  tell ;"  and  the  lad  again  bent  his 
head  over  the  pages,  so  that  the  long  hair,  that 
usually  streamed  down  upon  his  shoulders,  hung 
over  the  leaves,  and  he  kept  tossing  the  locks 
peevishly  back  as  he  gloated  over  the  text. 

In  a  moment  he  was  utterly  lost  again  in  the 
imaginary  scenes  before  him;  and  then  he  no  more 
heard  his  mother  tell  him  that  she  was  sure  it  was 
time  to  think  about  putting  the  shutters  up,  than 
if  he  had  been  fast  asleep.  Neither  could  sister 
Deborah  get  a  word  from  him,  even  though  she 
wanted  instructions  as  to  wrhere  to  place  the  lit 
tle  "  reef-points"  upon  his  mimic  main-sail. 

"  Benjamin !  Benjamin !"  cried  the  mother,  as 
she  rose  from  her  wheel  and  shook  the  boy,  to 
rouse  him  from  his  trance,  "  do  you  know,  sirrah, 
that  your  father  will  be  in  to  supper  directly, 
and  here  you  haven't  cut  so  much  as  one  bundle 
of  wicks  all  the  day  through?  How  shall  I  be 
able  to  screen  you  again  from  his  anger,  so  strict 
as  he  is  ?" 

The  boy  stared  vacantly,  as  though  he  had  been 


"WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO  WITH  THE  BOY?"     25 

suddenly  waked  up  out  of  a  deep  slumber,  and 
began  to  detail  the  incidents  of  the  story  he  had 
just  read,  after  the  fashion  of  boys  in  general, 
from  the  time  when  stories  were  first  invented. 
"  Crusoe  gets  shipwrecked,  you  know,  mother," 
he  started  off,  "and  then  he  makes  a  raft,  and 
goes  off  to  the  vessel,  you  know,  and  saves  a  lot 
of  things  from  the  ship,  you  know,  and  then,  you 
know — " 

"  There !  there !  have  done,  boy !"  cried  the 
mother,  in  alarm ;  "  this  madness  for  the  sea  will 
be  the  ruin  of  you.  Just  think  of  the  life  Josiah 
Franklin  has  led  since  he  went  off  as  a  cabin-boy, 
shortly  after  your  father's  first  wife  died;  for, 
though  he  was  the  late  Mrs.  Franklin's  pet  child, 
I've  heard  your  father  say  that  he  shut  his  doors 
upon  him  when  he  came  back  shoeless  and  shirt 
less  at  the  year's  end,  and  whatever  has  become 
of  the  poor  boy  now,  the  Lord  above  only  knows."* 

"  But,  mother,"  persisted  the  lad,  whose  brain 
was  still  so  inflamed  by  the  excitement  of  the 
wondrous  narrative  that  he  could  neither  speak 
nor  think  of  any  thing  else,  "  only  let  me  tell  you 
about  what  I  have  been  reading — it's  so  beautiful 
— and  then  I'll  listen  patiently  to  whatever  you've 
got  to  say ;"  and,  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
Ben  began  again :  "Well,  you  know,  mother,  Cru 
soe  gets  a  barrel  or  two  of  gunpowder  from  off 
the  wreck,  you  know,  and  some  tools  as  well ;  and 

*  "I  continued  thus  employed,"  says  Franklin,  in  his 
Autobiography,  "in  my  father's  business  for  two  years — that 
is,  till  I  was  twelve  years  old ;  and  then  my  brother  John, 
who  was  bred  to  that  business,  having  left  my  father,  and 
married,  and  set  up  for  himself  at  Rhode  Island,  there  was 
every  appearance  that  I  was  destined  to  supply  his  place, 
and  become  a  tallow-chandler.  But  my  dislike  to  the  trade 
continuing,  my  father  had  apprehensions  that,  if  he  did  not 
put  me  to  one  more  agreeable,  I  should  break  loose  to  go  to 
sea,  as  my  brother  Josiah  had  done,  to  his  great  vexation." 


26  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

then  he  sets  to  work,  you  know,  and  builds  him 
self  a  hut  on  the  uninhabited  island." 

The  dame  paid  no  heed  to  the  incidents  detail 
ed  by  the  lad,  but  kept  stretching  her  neck  over 
the  curtain  of  the  glass  door,  and  watching  first 
the  figure  of  her  husband  in  the  shop,  and  then 
glancing  at  the  wooden  clock  against  the  wall,  as 
if  she  dreaded  the  coming  of  the  supper-hour, 
when  she  knew  his  father  would  be  sure  to  de 
mand  of  Benjamin  an  account  of  his  day's  work. 

She  was  about  to  snatch  the  book  from  the 
boy's  hands,  and  remove  the  cottons  and  the 
rushes  out  of  sight,  when  suddenly  the  voice  of 
the  father,  calling  for  Benjamin  to  bring  him  the 
wicks,  dispelled  the  boy's  dream,  and  made  the 
mother  tremble  almost  as  much  as  it  did  the  lad 
himself. 

"  Oh,  mother,  you'll  beg  me  off  once  more, 
won't  you?"  sobbed  the  penitent  Benjamin,  as  his 
disobedience  now  flashed  upon  him,  for  he  knew 
how  often  his  father  had  pardoned  him  for  the 
same  fault,  and  that  he  had  warned  him  that  no 
entreaties  should  prevent  him  punishing  him  se 
verely  for  the  next  offense. 

"  Benjamin,  I  say !"  shouted  the  voice,  authori 
tatively,  from  the  shop. 

"  Go  to  him,  child,"  urged  the  mother,  as  she 
patted  her  pet  boy  (for  he  was  the  youngest)  on 
the  head  to  give  him  courage,  "  and  confess  your 
fault  openly  like  a  little  man.  You  know  the 
store  your  father  sets  upon  a  '  contrite  heart,' " 
she  added,  in  the  conventicle  cast  of  thought  pe 
culiar  to  the  early  settlers  in  New  England ;  "  and 
rest  assured,  if  he  but  sees  you  repentant,  his  an 
ger  will  give  way ;  for  the  aim  of  all  punishment, 
Benjamin,  is  to  chasten,  and  not  to  torture ;  and 
penitence  does  that  through  the  scourging  of  the 
spirit,  which  the  other  accomplishes  through  the 
sr  of  th<»  body." 


"WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO  WITH  THE  BOY?"     21 

"  Go  you  instead  of  me,  mother — do,  now,  there's 
a  dear.  You  will,  won't  you,  eh  ?"  begged  the  lit 
tle  fellow,  as  he  curled  his  arm  coaxingly  about 
her  waist,  and  looked  up  at  her  through  his  tears. 
"  Do  you  tell  him,  mother,  I  never  shall  be  able  to 
keep  to  the  horrid  candle-work,  for  I  hate  it — 
that  I  do ;  and  though  every  night,  when  I  lie 
awake,  I  make  vows  that  I  will  not  vex  him  again, 
but  strive  hard  at  whatever  he  gives  me  to  do, 
still,  when  the  next  day  comes,  my  heart  fails  me, 
and  my  spirit  keeps  pulling  my  body  away"  (the 
boy  had  caught  the  Puritanical  phrases  of  the 
time), "  and  filling  my  head  with  the  delight  of 
being  on  the  water ;  and  then,  for  the  life  of  me, 
I  can't  keep  away  from  my  voyage-books,  or  my 
little  ship,  or  something  that  reminds  me  of  the 
sea.  If  you'd  only  get  him  to  let  me  go  with 
Captain  Holmes — "  and,  as  the  dame  turned  her 
head  away,  he  added  quickly,  "just  for  one  voy 
age,  dear  mother — to  see  how  1  like  it — oh  !  I'd 
— I'd — I  don't  know  what  I'd  not  do  for  you, 
mother  dear;  I'd  bring  you  and  Deborah  home 
such  beautiful  things  then,  and — " 

The  boyish  protestations  were  suddenly  cut 
short  by  the  sight  of  the  brown  paper  cap  in  the 
shop  moving  toward  the  parlor ;  so,  without  wait 
ing  to  finish  the  sentence,  the  affrighted  lad  flung 
open  the  side  door  leading  to  the  staircase,  and 
scampered  up  to  his  room,  with  an  imaginary  par 
ent  following  close  at  his  heels. 

Here  the  little  fellow  threw  himself  on  the 
"trestle-bed"  that  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  gar 
ret,  and  lay  for  a  time  too  terrified  for  tears ;  for 
his  conscience  converted  the  least  noise  into  the 
approach  of  his  father's  footsteps,  so  that  he  trem 
bled  like  a  leaf  at  every  motion,  his  heart  beating 
the  while  in  his  bosom  like  a  flail. 


28  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

After  a  time,  however,  the  lad,  finding  he  was 
left  by  himself,  began  to  lay  aside  his  fears,  and 
to  talk,  as  boys  are  wont  to  do,  about  the  hard 
ships  he  endured. 

"  He  was  sure  he  did  every  thing  he  possibly 
could,"  he  would  mutter  to  himself,  as  he  whim 
pered  between  the  words,  "and  he  thought  it 
very  cruel  of  them  to  force  him  to  keep  to  that 
filthy,  nasty  candle-making,  when  they  knew  he 
couldn't  bear  it,  and,  what  was  more,  he  never 
should  like  it,  not  even  if  he  was  to  make  ever  so 
much  money  at  it,  and  be  able  to  keep  a  pony  of 
his  own  into  the  bargain.  Why  wouldn't  they 
let  him  go  to  sea,  he  wondered  ?  He  called  it 
very  unkind,  he  did."  And  the  boy  would  doubt 
lessly  have  continued  in  the  same  strain,  had  not 
the  little  pet  Guinea-pig,  that  he  kept  in  an  old 
bird-cage  in  one  corner  of  his  room,  here  given  a 
squeak  so  shrill  that  it  sounded  more  like  the  pip 
ing  of  a  bird  than  the  cry  of  a  beast. 

In  a  moment  Benjamin  had  forgotten  all  his 
sorrows,  and  with  the  tear-drops  still  lingering  in 
the  corner  of  his  eyes — like  goutes  of  rain  in  flow 
er-cups  after  a  summer  shower — he  leaped  from 
the  bed,  saying,  "  Ah !  Master  Toby  Anderson, 
you  want  your  supper,  do  you?"  and  the  next 
minute  his  hand  w^as  inside  the  cage,  dragging 
the  plump  little  piebald  thing  from  out  its  nest  of 
hay. 

Then,  cuddling  the  pet  creature  close  up  in  his 
neck,  while  he  leaned  his  head  on  one  side  so  as 
to  keep  its  back  warm  with  his  cheek,  he  began 
prattling  away  to  the  animal  almost  as  a  mother 
does  to  her  babe. 

"  Ah !  Master  Tiggy,  that's  what  you  like,  don't 
you  ?"  said  Benjamin,  as  he  stroked  his  hand  along 
the  sleek  sides  of  the  tame  little  thing  till  it  made 
a  noise  like  a  cry  of  joy,  somewhat  between  the 


"WHAT  SHALL  WE  DO  WITH  THE  BOY?"     29 

chirruping  of  a  cricket  and  the  pur  of  a  cat.  "  You 
like  me  to  rub  your  back,  you  do^  you  fond  little 
rascal !  But  I've  got  bad  news  for  Toby — there's 
no  supper  for  him  to-night;  no  nice  bread  and 
milk  for  him  to  put  his  little  pink  tooties  in  while 
he  eats  it ;  for  he's  got  all  the  manners  of  the  pig, 
that  he  has.  Ah !  he'll  have  to  go  to  bed,  like 
his  poor  young  master,  on  an  empty  stomach ;  for 
what  do  you  think,  Tiggy  dear? — Avhy,  they've 
been  very  unkind  to  poor  Benjamin,  that  they 
have ;"  and  the  chord  once  touched,  the  boy  con 
fided  all  his  sorrows  to  the  pet  animal,  as  if  it  had 
been  one  of  his  cronies  at  school. 

"I  wouldn't  treat  you  so,  would  I,  Toby?"  he 
went  on,  hugging  the  little  thing  as  he  spoke ; 
"for  who  gives  the  beauty  nice  apple-parings? 
and  who's  a  regular  little  piggy-wiggy  for  them  ? 
— who  but  Master  Toby  Anderson  here.  Ay,  but 
to-night  my  little  gentleman  will  have  to  eat  his 
bed,  though  it  won't  be  the  first  time  he  has  done 
that ;  for  he  dearly  loves  a  bit  of  sweet  new  hay, 
don't  you,  Tobe  ?" 

Presently  the  boy  cried,  as  the  animal  wriggled 
itself  up  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  "Come  down  here, 
sir !  come  down  directly,  I  say !"  and  then  stand 
ing  up,  he  proceeded  to  shake  his  arm  violently 
over  the  bed  till  the  little  black  and  white  ball 
was  dislodged  from  the  new  nestling-place  he  had 
chosen. 

"  Come  here,  you  little  rascal !  Come  and  let 
me  look  at  you !  There,  now,  sit  up  and  wash 
yourself  with  your  little  paws,  like  a  kitten,  for 
you're  going  to  bed  shortly,  I  can  tell  you.  Oh, 
he's  a  beauty,  that  he  is,  with  his  black  patch  over 
one  eye  like  a  little  bull-dog,  and  a  little  brown 
spot  at  his  side,  the  very  color  of  a  pear  that's 
gone  bad.  Then  he's  got  eyes  of  his  own  like 
large  black  beads,  and  little  tiddy  ears  that  are  as 


='•<>  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKL1N. 

soft  and  pinky  as  rose-leaves.  He's  a  nice  clean 
little  tiggy,  too,  and  not  like  those  filthy  white 
mice  that  some  boys  keep,  and  which  have  such 
a  nasty  ratty  smell  with  them — no !  Toby  smells 
of  nice  new  hay  instead.  There !  there's  a  fine 
fellow  for  you,"  cried  the  lad,  as  he  rubbed  up 
the  tiny  animal's  coat  the  wrong  way.  "  Why, 
he  looks  like  a  little  baby  hog  with  a  mane  of 
bristles  up  his  neck.  But  Toby's  no  hog,  that  he 
isn't,  for  he  wouldn't  bite  me  even  with  my  finger 
at  his  mouth — no !  he  only  nibbles  at  it,  to  have  a 
game  at  play,  that's  all.  But  come,  Master  An 
derson,  you  must  go  back  to  your  nest,  and  make 
the  best  supper  you  can  off  your  bed-clothes ;  for 
you  can't  sleep  with  the  cat  to-night,  so  you'll 
have  to  keep  yourself  warm,  old  fellow,  for  I 
couldn't  for  the  life  of  me  go  down  stairs  to  get 
Pussy  for  you  to  cuddle  just  now." 

The  pet  was  at  length  returned  to  its  cage, 
and  Benjamin  once  more  left  to  brood  over  his 
troubles ;  so  he  flung  himself  on  the  bed  again, 
and  began  thinking  how  he  could  best  avoid  the 
punishment  that  he  felt  sure  awaited  him  on  the 
morrow. 

Yet  it  was  strange,  he  mused,  his  father  had 
not  called  him  down  even  to  put  the  shutters  up. 
Who  had  closed  the  shop  ?  he  wondered.  They 
must  have  done  supper  by  this  time.  Yes,  that 
was  the  clatter  of  the  things  being  taken  away. 
Why  didn't  Deborah  come  to  him?  he  always 
did  to  her  when  she  was  in  disgrace.  Who  had 
asked  a  blessing  on  the  food  now  he  was  away  ? 
Still  he  could  not  make  out  why  he  wasn't  called 
down.  Had  mother  begged  him  off  as  usual  ? 
No,  that  couldn't  be,  for  father  had  threatened 
last  time  that  he  would  listen  to  no  more  en 
treaties.  Perhaps  one  of  the  deacons  had  come  in 


"  WHAT    SHALL    WE    DO    WITH    THE    BOY  ?  31 

to  talk  with  father  about  the  affairs  of  the  chapel 
in  South  Street,*  or  else  Uncle  Ben  was  reading 
to  them  his  short-hand  notes  of  the  sermon  he  had 
gone  to  hear  that  evening.f 

Soon,  however,  the  sounds  of  his  father's  violin 
below  stairs  put  an  end  to  the  boy's  conjectures 
as  to  the  occupation  of  the  family,  and  as  he  crept 
outside  the  door  to  listen,  he  could  hear  them  all 
joining  in  a  hymn.J; 

Still  Benjamin  could  not  make  out  why  his  pun 
ishment  should  be  deferred.  However,  he  made 
his  mind  up  to  one  thing,  and  that  was  to  be  off 
to  his  brother-in-law,  Captain  Holmes,  at  daybreak 
on  the  morrow,  and  get  him  to  promise  to  take 
him  as  a  cabin-boy  on  his  next  voyage — for  that 
would  put  an  end  to  all  the  noises  between  his 
father  and  him. 

The  plan  was  no  sooner  framed  than  the  lad 
was  away  in  spirit  again,  sailing  far  over  the  sea, 
while  he  listened  to  the  drone  of  the  sacred  tune 
below ;  until  at  last,  tired  out  with  his  troubles, 
he  fell  asleep  as  he  lay  outside  the  bed,  and  woke 

*  "I  remember  well, "Franklin  writes  in  the  description 
he  gives  of  his  father's  character  in  his  Autobiography,  "  his 
being  frequently  visited  by  leading  men,  who  consulted  him 
for  his  opinion  on  public  affairs,  and  those  of  the  church  he 
belonged  to,  and  who  showed  a  great  respect  for  his  judg 
ment  and  advice." 

t  "  He  had  invented  a  short  hand  of  his  own,"  says  Frank 
lin  in  his  life,  speaking  of  his  Uncle  Benjamin,  "which  he 
taught  me ;  but,  not  having  practiced  it,  I  have  now  forgot 
ten  it.  He  was  very  pious,  and  an  assiduous  attendant  at 
the  sermons  of  the  best  preachers,  which  he  reduced  to  writ 
ing  according  to  his  method,  and  had  thus  collected  several 
volumes  of  them." 

"My  father  was  skilled  a  little  in  music.  His  voice  was 
sonorous  and  agreeable,  so  that  when  he  played  on  his  violin, 
and  sang  withal,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  do  after  the  busi 
ness  of  the  day  was  over,  it  was  extremely  agreeable  to  hear." 
— Franklin's  A utof>ioyrtij>/iy. 


YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

only  when  the  air  was  blue  with  the  faint  light 
of  the  coming  day. 

His  first  thoughts,  on  opening  his  eyes,  were 
of  the  chastisement  that  he  felt  assured  was  in 
store  for  him  if  he  staid  till  his  father  was  stirring. 
So,  without  waiting  to  tidy  himself,  he  crept,  with 
his  shoes  in  his  hand,  as  silently  as  possible  down 
stairs,  and  then  slipping  them  on  his  feet,  he  was 
off,  like  a  frightened  deer,  to  the  water-side. 

Come  what  might,  little  Ben  was  determined 
to  be  a  sailor. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"MISSING:   A  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN — " 

"If  Benjamin  Franklin  will  return  to  his  home, 
all  icill  be  for — " 

"  No,  no,  I  won^t  have  ''forgiven'  put  down," 
doggedly  exclaimed  the  father,  seizing  hold  of 
Uncle  Benjamin's  arm  to  stop  his  pen,  as  the  lat 
ter  read  out,  word  by  word,  the  announcement 
he  was  busy  writing  for  the  town-crier ;  while,  in 
one  corner  of  the  room,  that  important  civic  func 
tionary  stood  waiting  for  the  bit  of  paper,  with 
his  big  bell  inverted,  so  that  it  looked  like  an 
enormous  brass  tulip  in  his  hand. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  Master  Frankling,  but  we 
general  says  '  forgiven'  in  all  sitch  cases,"  meekly 
observed  the  bellman,  with  a  slight  pull  of  his 
forelock. 

"  Oh,  Josiah,  remember  the  words  of  your 
morning  prayer !"  interposed  the  broken-hearted 
mother,  as  for  a  moment  she  raised  her  face  from 
out  her  hands:  "  ^forgive  us  as  we — '  you  know 
the  rest." 

"Ay,  come,  Josh,"  said  Uncle  Benjamin,  "don't 


"  MISSING  :    A    YOUNG   GENTLEMAN "  S3 

be  stubborn-hearted !  Think  of  the  young  '  nev- 
er-do-well'  you  were  yourself  when  you  were 
'prentice  to  brother  John  at  Banbury."* 

"  That's  all  very  well !"  murmured  the  Puritan 
tallow-chandler,  turning  away  to  hide  the  smiles 
begotten  by  the  youthful  recollection,  and  still 
struggling  with  the  innate  kindness  of  his  nature  ; 
"but  I've  got  a  duty  to  perform  to  my  boy,  and 
do  it  I  wil^  even  if  it  breaks  my  heart." 

"  Yes,  but,  Josh,"  remonstrated  Uncle  Ben,  as 
he  laid  his  hand  on  his  brother's  shoulder,  "  think 
of  the  times  and  times  you  and  I  have  stolen  away 
on  the  sly  to  Northampton,  to  see  the  mummers 
there,  unbeknown  to  father.  Ah  !  you  were  a  sad 
young  jackanapes  for  the  play-house,  that  you 
were,  Master  Josh,  at  Ben's  age,"  he  added, 
nudging  the  father  playfully  in  the  side. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  deny  it,  Benjamin" — and  the 
would-be  Brutus  chuckled  faintly  as  his  brother 
reminded  him  of  his  boyish  peccadilloes — "  but," 
he  added  immediately  afterward,  screwing  up  as 
good  a  frown  as  he  could  manage  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  "  that's  no  reason  why  I  should  allow 
my  boy  to  be  guilty  of  the  same  sins.  There,  go 
along  with  you — cfo,"  he  exclaimed,  good-humor- 
edly,  as  he  endeavored  to  shake  off  both  the  moth 
er  and  the  uncle,  who,  seeing  that  the  ice  of  pa 
ternal  propriety  was  fast  thawing  under  the 
warmth  of  his  better  nature,  had  planted  them 
selves  one  on  either  side  of  him.  "  I  tell  you  it's 
my  bounden  duty  not  to  overlook  the  boy's  dis- 

*  "John,  my  next  uncle,  was  bred  a  dyer,  I  believe,  of 
wool,"  says  Benjamin  Franklin  himself  in  his  life.  *  *  * 
"My  grandfather  Thomas,  who  was  born  in  1598,  lived  at 
Ecton  till  he  was  too  old  to  continue  his  business,  when  he 
retired  to  Banbury  in  Oxfordshire,  to  the  house  of  his  son 
John,  with  whom  my  father  served  an  apprenticeship." — See 
Autobiography,  p.  3  and  4. 

c 


34  YOUNG   BENJAMIN    FEANKLIN. 

obedience  any  longer ;"  and,  so  saying,  he  beat 
the  air  with  his  fist,  as  if  anxious  to  hammer  the 
notion  into  his  own  mind  as  well  as  theirs. 

"  Verily,  Josiah,  justice  says  all  should  be  pun 
ished,  '  for  there  are  none  perfect,  no,  not  one,'  " 
whispered  the  religious  wife  impressively  in  his 
ear ;  "  but  love  and  mercy,  husband,  cry  For 
give." 

"To  be  sure  they  do,"  chimed  in  the  good- 
natured  uncle ;  "  for,  as  the  mummers  used  to  say 
in  the  play,  Josh,  '  If  all  have  their  deserts,  who 
shall  'scape  whipping  ?'  So,  come,  I  may  put 
down  'forgiven?  eh  ?"  added  the  peacemaker,  as 
he  shook  his  brother  by  the  hand,  while  Josiah 
turned  away  as  if  ashamed  of  his  weakness.  "  Ah ! 
I  knew  it  'ud  be  so,"  and  quickly  inditing  the 
word,  Uncle  Benjamin  handed  the  paper  to  the 
crier,  saying,  "  There,  my  man,  you'd  better  first 
go  round  the  harbor  with  it ;  and  if  you  bring  the 
prodigal  back  with  you  in  an  hour  or  two,  why, 
jou  shall  have  a  mug  of  cider  over  and  above 
your  pay." 

The  crier,  having  nodded  his  head,  and  scraped 
his  foot  back  along  the  sanded  floor  by  way  of 
obeisance,  took  his  departure,  when  in  a  minute 
or  two  the  family  heard  his  bell  jangling  away  at 
the  end  of  the  street,  and  immediately  afterward 
caught  the  distant  cry  of  "  Oyez,  oyez,  oyez !  hif 
Benjamin  Frankliug  will  return  to  his  'ome — " 

"  Do  you  hear,  sister  ?"  said  Uncle  Benjamin, 
consolingly,  as  he  approached  the  weeping  moth 
er  ;  "  your  boy  will  be  heard  of  all  over  the  town, 
and  you'll  soon  have  your  little  pet  bird  back 
again  in  his  cage,  rest  assured." 

"  Heaven  grant  it  may  be  so,  and  bless  you  for 
your  loving  kindness,  brother,"  faltered  out  the 
dame,  half  hysteric,  through  her  tears,  with  de 
light  at  the  thought  of  regaining  her  lost  son. 


"MISSING:  A  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN — "        35 

"  Hah !  it'll  all  come  right  enough  by-and-by," 
said  Uncle  Benjamin,  with  a  sigh  like  the  blowing 
of  a  porpoise,  as  he  now  prepared  to  copy  into  his 
short-hand  book  the  notes  of  the  sermon  he  had 
heard  on  the  previous  evening,  "  and  the  young 
good-for-nothing  will  turn  out  to  be  the  flower  of 
the  flock  yet — take  my  word  for  it.  Wasn't  our 
brother  Thomas  the  wildest  of  all  us  boys,  Josh  ? 
and  didn't  he  come,  after  all,  to  be  a  barrister,  and 
a  great  man  ?  And  when  Squire  Palmer  advised 
him  to  leave  the  forge,  on  account  of  his  love  of 
learning,  and  become  a  student  at  law,  didn't  fa 
ther — you  remember,  Josh — vow  he  wouldn't  lis 
ten  to  it,  and  declare  that  the  eldest  son  of  the 
Franklins  had  always  been  a  smith,  and  a  smith, 
and  nothing  else  than  a  smith,  his  eldest  son 
should  be  ?  Well,"  the  good  man  proceeded,  as 
he  kept  rubbing  his  spectacles  with  the  dirty  bit 
of  wash-leather  he*  usually  carried  in  his  pocket, 
"  didn't  Torn,  I  say,  in  spite  of  father's  objections 
and  prophecies,  rise  to  be  one  of  the  foremost  men 
in  the  whole  county,  and  a  friend  of  my  Lord 
Halifax  ?*  ay,  and  so  your  Ben,  mark  my  word, 

*  "Thomas,  my  eldest  uncle,"  wrote  Franklin  in  1771  to 
his  son,  William  Temple  Franklin,  who  was  then  Governor 
of  New  Jersey,  "was  bred  a  smith  under  his  father"  ("the 
eldest  son  being  always  brought  up  to  that  employment,"  he 
states  in  another  place),  "but  being  ingenious,  and  encour 
aged  in  learning,  as  all  his  brothers  were,  by  an  Esquire 
Palmer,  then  the  principal  inhabitant  of  our  parish,  he  qual 
ified  himself  for  the  bar,  and  became  a  considerable  man  in 
the  county,  was  chief  mover  of  all  public-spirited  enterprises 
for  the  county  or  town  of  Northampton,  as  well  as  of  his  own 
village,  of  which  many  instances  were  related  of  him,  and  he 
was  much  taken  notice  of  and  patronized  by  my  Lord  Hali 
fax.  He  died  in  1702,  four  years  to  a  day  before  I  was  born. 
The  recital  which  some  elderly  persons  made  to  us  of  his 
character,  I  remember,  struck  you  as  something  extraordi 
nary,  from  its  similarity  with  what  you  know  of  me.  '  Had 
he  died,'  said  you,  'four  years  later,  on  the  same  day,  one 


36  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FEANKLIN. 

will  come  to  be  courted  by  the  great  some  day ; 
for — though  he's  my  own  godson,  and  called  after 
me,  too — he's  the  very  image  of  his  uncle  the  bar 
rister,  that  he  is;  so  like  him,  indeed,  that  if 
Thomas,  instead  of  dying,  as  he  did  four  years  to 
a  day  before  Benjamin  was  born,  had  quitted  this 
world  for  a  better  just  four  years  later,  why,  I 
should  have  said — had  I  been  a  heathen,  and  be 
lieved  in  such  things — that  the  spirit  of  the  one 
had  passed  into  the  body  of  the  other ;  for  your 
Ben  has  got  the  same  clever  head-piece  of  his 
own,  and  is  for  all  the  world  the  same  greedy 
glutton  at  a  book." 

"  I  grant  he's  a  lad  of  some  parts,"  exclaimed 
the  flattered  father,  while  slipping  on,  over  the 
arms  of  his  coat,  the  clean  linen  sleeves  his  wife 
had  put  to  air  for  him,  "  and,  indeed,  was  always 
quick  enough  at  his  learning.  But  I'm  wanted  in 
the  shop,"  he  added,  as  the  bell  was  heard  to  tin 
kle  without ;  "  so  do  you,  Benjamin,  talk  it  over 
with  Abiah  here,  and  please  her  mother's  heart 
by  raising  her  hopes  of  her  truant  child.  Com 
ing  !"  shouted  the  tallow-chandler,  as  he  ducked 
his  head  under  the  fringe  of  candles,  while  the 
impatient  visitor  kept  tapping  on  the  counter. 

As  the  husband  left  the  parlor,  the  tidy  wife 
cried  in  a  half-whisper  after  him,  "  Do  pray  stop, 
Josiah,  and  put  on  a  clean  apron,  for  really  that 
isn't  fit  to  go  into  the  shop  with,"  and  then,  find 
ing  she  had  spoken  too  late,  she  turned  to  Uncle 
Benjamin  (who  was  now  scribbling  away  at  the 
table),  and  continued,  with  all  the  glory  of  a 
mother's  pride,  "  I  can  hardly  remember  the  time 
when  our  Ben  coiddrft  read :  how,  too,  the  little 
fellow  ever  learned  his  letters  was  always  a  mys 
tery  to  me,  for  I  never  knew  of  any  one  teaching 

might  have  supposed  a  transmigration.'" — Autobiography, 
Bohrts  edition,  p.  4. 


3T 

him.*  But  I  can't  get  Josiah  to  bear  in  mind 
that  he  was  a  boy  himself  once ;  for,  though  Ben 
may  be  a  little  flighty,  I'm  sure  there's  no  vice 
in  the  child." 

And,  now  that  her  thoughts  had  been  diverted 
into  a  more  lively  channel,  she  rose  from  her  seat, 
and  began  to  busy  herself  with  making  the  apple 
and  pumpkin  pie  that  she  had  promised  the  chil 
dren  for  that  day's  feast. 

"  It  was  only  a  packman  with  tapes  and  rib 
bons,"  said  Josiah,  as  he  shortly  rejoined  the 
couple ;  "  but  even  he  had  got  hold  of  the  news 
of  our  misfortune." 

"  Well,  but,  Josiah,"  expostulated  the  brother, 
looking  up  sideways,  like  a  bird,  from  the  book  in 
which  he  was  writing,  "  don't  you  remember  the 
time,  man  alive,  when  you  used  to  walk  over  from 
Banbury  to  the  smithy  at  Ectonf  every  week,  and 
go  nutting  and  birds'-nesting  with  us  boys  in  Sy- 
well  Wood,  on  God's-day,  without  ever  setting 
foot  in  His  house  ?  and  do  you  recollect,  too,  how 
we  boys  'ud  carry  off  the  old  iron  from  the  forge, 

*  "  My  early  readiness  in  learning  to  read,"  says  our  hero, 
in  the  account  he  gives  of  himself"  (and  which  must  have 
been  very  early,  as  I  can  not  remember  the  time  when  I  could 
not  read),  and  the  opinion  of  all  friends  that  I  should  cer 
tainly  make  a  good  scholar,  encouraged  him  (my  father)  in 
this  purpose  of  his — of  putting  me  to  the  Church." — Frank 
lin's  Life,  p.  7. 

t  "  Some  notes  which  some  of  my  uncles,  who  had  some 
curiosity  in  collecting  family  anecdotes,  once  put  into  my 
hands,  furnished  me  with  several  particulars  relative  to  our 
ancestors.  From  these  notes  I  learned  that  they  lived  in  the 
village  of  Ecton,  in  Northamptonshire,  on  a  freehold  of  about 
thirty  acres,  for  at  least  300  years,  and  how  much  longer 
could  not  be  ascertained.  This  small  estate  would  not  have 
served  for  their  maintenance  without  the  business  of  a  smith, 
which  had  continued  in  the  family  down  to  my  uncle's  time, 
the  eldest  son  always  being  brought  up  to  that  employment 
— a  custom  which  he  and  my  father  followed  with  regard  to 
their  eldest  sons." — Life  of  Franklin,  p.  2  and  3. 


33  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

and  sell  it  to  the  traveling  tinker,  who  used  to 
come  round  with  his  cart  once  a  month,  and  put 
up  at  the  '  World's  End'  (that  was  the  sign  of  the 
inn  at  Ecton,  Abiah,"  he  added,  parenthetically, 
"  and  the  half-way  house  between  Northampton 
and  Wellingborough,  in  Old  England),  and  how 
we  let  father  accuse  Mat  Wilcox — you  remember 
old  Mat — who  was  helping  him  at  the  forge  then, 
of  stealing  his  metal,  without  ever  saying  a  word 
to  clear  the  poor  man  ?  Ah !  Josiah,  Josiah,  we 
can  always  see  the  mote  in  another's  eye — " 

"  Say  no  more,  Ben,"  exclaimed  the  reproved 
brother ;  "  we  are  but  weak  vessels  at  best." 

"  Now  confess,  husband,"  interrupted  the  wife, 
as  she  continued  rolling  out  the  paste  before  her 
till  it  was  like  a  sheet  of  buff  leather,  "isn't  it  bet 
ter  that  I  got  you  to  sleep  on  your  anger  before 
punishing  the  poor  lad  ?  It  is  but  fright,  after  all, 
that  has  driven  him  from  us;  and  when  he  re 
turns,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  use  reason  rather  than 
the  whip  with  him." 

"Yes,  Abiah,"  dryly  observed  the  husband, 
" '  Spare  the  rod,'  and — "  (he  nodded  his  head  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  I  needn't  tell  you  the  conse 
quence") — "  that  is  ever  a  woman's  maxim." 

At  this  moment  the  side  door  opened  stealthi 
ly,  and  Deborah  (dressed  for  the  morning's  work 
in  a  long  checked  pinafore  reaching  from  the 
throat  to  the  heels,  so  that  the  young  woman  look 
ed  like  a  great  overgrown  girl)  thrust  her  head  in 
the  crevice,  and  gave  her  mother  "  a  look" — one 
of  those  significant  household  glances  which  refer 
to  a  thousand  and  odd  little  family  matters  never 
intended  for  general  ears. 

"  You  can  come  in  now,  Deborah,"  cried  the 
mother,  who,  still  engaged  in  the  preparation  of 
her  apple  and  pumpkin  pie,  was  busy  thumbing 
patches  of  lard  over  the  broad  sheet  of  paste,  and 


"MISSING:  A  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN — "        39 

converting  it  in  appearance  into  a  huge  palette 
covered  with  dabs  of  white  paint.  "  Have  you 
finished  all  up  stairs  ?"  she  inquired,  looking  round 
for  the  moment. 

The  girl,  in  her  anxiety  for  her  brother,  did  not 
stop  to  answer  the  question,  but  said  in  an  under 
tone,  as  she  drew  close  up  to  her  mother's  side, 
"  Has  father  forgiven  Ben  ?" 

The  dame,  however,  on  her  part,  merely  re 
plied,  "  There,  child,  never  mind  about  that  just 
now ;  you'll  know  all  in  good  time,"  and  imme 
diately  began  to  catechise  her  on  her  domestic 
duties.  "  Have  you  put  a  good  fire  in  '  the  keep 
ing-room,'  and  sanded  the  floor  nicely,  and  got  out 
some  more  knives  and  forks  for  the  children? 
for,  remember,  we  shall  sit  down  upward  of  a 
score  to  dinner  to-day." 

But  Deborah  was  too  intent  to  listen  to  any 
thing  but  the  fate  of  the  boy,  whom  she  loved 
better  than  all  her  brothers,  for  she  had  been  al 
lowed  to  nurse  him  when  a  baby,  though  but  a 
mere  child  herself  at  the  time,  and  had  continued 
his  toy-maker  in  general  up  to  the  present  mo 
ment.  So  she  pulled  her  mother  timidly  by  the 
apron,  and  said,  as  she  glanced  hastily  at  her  fa 
ther,  to  assure  herself  that  he  was  still  arguing 
with  Uncle  Benjamin,  "  Will  father  let  him  come 
back  home  ?  have  you  found  out  where  he's  gone 
to  yet  ?  and  do  you  really  think,  mother,  he's  run 
away  to  sea?"  adding  the  next  minute,  with  a 
start,  as  the  thought  suddenly  flashed  upon  her, 
"  Oh  dear  me !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  you,  mother, 
a  man  brought  this  letter  to  the  side  door,  and 
said  I  was  to  deliver  it  privately  to  you." 

"  What  a  head  you  have,  child !"  exclaimed  the 
dame,  as,  dusting  the  flour  from  her  hands,  she 
snatched  the  note  from  the  girl,  and  hastily  tore 
it  open. 


40  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

But  her  eye  had  hardly  darted  backward  and 
forward  over  the  first  few  lines  before  the  mother 
uttered  a  faint  scream,  and  staggered  back  to  the 
bee-hive  chair. 

In  a  minute  the  husband  and  Uncle  Benjamin 
were  at  her  side,  and  Deborah,  seizing  the  vine 
gar  cruet  from  the  dresser-shelf,  was  bathing  her 
mother's  temples  with  the  acid. 

"  God  be  praised !  my  boy's  at  Ruth's,"  the 
dame  at  length  gasped  out,  in  answer  to  the  anx 
ious  group  around  her ;  "  Holmes  has  sent  a  note 
here  to  say  he  will  bring  him  round  in  the  even 
ing;"  and  she  pointed  languidly  to  the  letter  which 
had  fallen  on  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    FRANKLIN    FAMILY. 

JOSIAH  FRANKLIN  retained  sufficient  of  the  aus 
tere  habits  of  the  Puritans  and  the  early  Non 
conformists  to  have  made  it  a  rule — even  if  his 
limited  means  and  large  family  (no  fewer  than 
thirteen  of  whom  occasionally  sat  together  at  his 
table*)  had  not  made  it  a  matter  of  necessity — 
that  the  food  partaken  of  by  the  little  colony  of 
boys  and  girls  he  had  to  support  should  be  of  the 
plainest  possible  description.  Simple  fare,  how 
ever,  was  so  much  a  matter  of  principle  with  Jo- 
siah  (despising,  as  he  did,  all "  lusting  after  the 
flesh-pots"),  that  he  never  permitted  at  his  board 

*  ' '  By  his  first  wife  my  father  had  four  children  born  in 
America  (besides  three  previously  in  England),  and  by  a  sec 
ond  ten  others — in  all,  seventeen — of  whom  I  remember  to 
have  seen  thirteen  sitting  together  at  his  table,  who  all  grew 
up  to  years  of  maturity,  and  were  married." — Autobiography^ 
p.  9, 


THE   FKANKLIN   FAMILY.  41 

any  of  those  unseemly  exhibitions  of  delight  or 
disgust  which  certain  youngsters  are  wont  to  in 
dulge  in  on  the  entry  of  any  dish  more  or  less 
toothsome  than  the  well-known  and  ever-dreaded 
scholastic  "  stick-jaw."* 

In  so  primitive  a  household,  therefore,  there 
must  have  been  some  special  cause  for  the  com 
pounding  of  so  epicurean  a  dish  as  the  before- 
mentioned  apple  and  pumpkin  pie — some  extra 
ordinary  reason  why  Dame  Franklin  should  have 
instructed  Deborah,  as  she  did, "  to  be  sure  and 
put  out  plenty  of  maple  sugar  for  the  children," 
besides  "  a  gallon  of  the  dried  apples  and  peaches 
to  be  stewed  for  supper" — and  why  that  turkey 
and  those  "  canvas-back  ducks"  (so  highly  prized 
among  the  creature-comforts  of  America)  were  ere 
long  twirling  away  in  front  of  the  bright,  cherry- 
red  fire,  and  filling  the  whole  house  with  their 
savory  perfumef — and  why,  too,  the  brisket  of 

*  "Little  or  no  notice  was  ever  taken  of  what  related  to 
the  victuals  on  the  table — whether  well  or  ill  cooked — in  or 
out  of  season — of  good  or  bad  flavor — preferable  or  inferior 
to  this  or  that  other  thing  of  the  kind  ;  so  that  I  was  brought 
up  in  such  perfect  inattention  to  these  matters  as  to  be  quite 
indifferent  what  kind  of  food  was  set  before  me.  Indeed,  I 
am  so  unobservant  of  it,  that  to  this  day  I  can  scarce  tell, 
a  few  hours  after  dinner,  of  what  dishes  it  consisted.  This 
has  been  a  great  convenience  to  me  in  traveling,  when  my 
companions  have  sometimes  been  very  unhappy  for  want  of 
a  suitable  gratification  of  their  more  delicate,  because  better 
instructed  tastes  and  appetites." — Life  of  Franklin,  p.  9. 

f  The  white,  or  canvas-back  duck,  derives  its  name  from 
the  color  of  the  feathers  between  the  wings  being  of  a  light 
brown  tint,  like  canvas.  These  birds  breed  on  the  borders 
of  the  great  Northern  lakes,  and  in  winter  frequent  the  Sus- 
quehanna  and  Potomac  rivers,  in  order  that  they  may  feed 
on  the  bulbous  root  of  a  grass  that  grows  on  the  flats  there, 
and  which  has  much  the  flavor  of  celery.  It  is  to  the  feed 
ing  on  this  root  that  the  peculiarly  delicious  flavor  of  their 
flesh  is  attributed.  They  are  held  in  as  great  esteem  in 
America  as  grouse  with  us,  and  are  frequently  sent  as  a 


42  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

corned  beef  had  been  got  up  from  "  the  cask"  be 
low,  and  was  now  wabbling  and  steaming,  with 
its  dozen  of  dough-nuts  bumping  against  the  lid 
of  the  iron  pot  on  the  hob,  and  the  corn-cakes 
baking  in  the  oven,  and  the  huge  bowl  of  curds — 
white  and  cold-looking  as  marble — standing  on 
the  dresser. 

Why  all  this  preparation  for  feasting  in  a  house 
where  the  ordinary  food  was  almost  as  frugal  as 
a  hermit's  fare  ? 

The  Franklin  family  knew  but  one  holiday  in 
the  course  of  the  year — the  anniversary  of  the  fa 
ther's  safe  landing  in  America  in  1685,  which  the 
pious  Josiah  had  made  a  family  "Thanksgiving 
Day."  To  commemorate  this  event,  the  younger 
girls  (those  who  had  not  yet  finished  their  school 
ing)  came  home  from  their  maiden  aunts,  Hannah 
and  Patience  Folger,  who  kept  a  day-school  at 
Sherbourne,  in  Nantucket ;  while  the  boys  who 
were  out  in  the  world,  serving  their  apprentice 
ship,  got  leave  to  quit  their  master's  house  for  the 
day,  to  take  part  in  the  family  festival ;  and  the 
grown-up  sons,  who  wrere  in  business  for  them 
selves,  gave  over  their  work,  or  shut  up  their 
stores,  and  came  with  their  wives  and  little  ones 
to  join  in  the  rejoicing. 

So  sacred  a  duty,  indeed,  did  all  the  Franklins 
regard  it,  to  assemble  once  a  year  under  the  pa 
ternal  roof,  that  none  but  the  most  cogent  excuse 
for  absence  was  ever  urged  or  received,  so  that 
even  those  who  were  away  in  distant  lands  strove 
to  return  in  time  for  the  general  meeting. 

The  morning  was  not  far  advanced,  and  Josiah 

present  for  hundreds  of  miles.  A  canvas-back  duck,  indeed, 
is  reckoned  one  of  the  greatest  dainties  in  the  States,  being 
more  delicate  in  flavor  than  a  wild  duck,  though  consider 
ably  larger.  The  Americans  eat  it  with  currant  jelly,  as  if 
it  were  venison. 


THE    FEANKLIN   FAMILY.  43 

had  hardly  done  putting  up  the  shutters  of  his 
store,  as  Avas  his  wont  on  this  day  precisely  at  ten 
in  the  forenoon,  before  the  boys  and  the  girls,  and 
the  grown-up  young  men  and  women  of  the  fam 
ily,  began  to  swarm  in  like  so  many  bees  at  the 
sound  of  a  gong. 

First  came  Jabez  and  Nehemiah — two  stout, 
strapping  lads,  carpenter's  and  mason's  appren 
tices  (the  one  had  called  for  the  other  on  his  road), 
dressed  in  their  Sunday  three-cornered  hats  and 
bright  yellow  leather  breeches,  and  with  their 
thick  shoes  brown  with  the  earth  of  the  plowed 
fields  they  had  trudged  over,  and  carrying  in  their 
hands  the  new  walking-sticks  they  had  cut  from 
the  copse  as  they  came  along. 

Then  young  Esther  and  Martha  made  their  ap 
pearance,  wrapped  in  their  warm  scarlet  cloaks, 
and  looking  like  a  pair  of  "little  Red  Riding- 
Hoods" — for  they  had  come  from  school  at  Nan- 
tucket,  and  had  been  brought  to  the  door  by  the 
mate  of  the  New  York  sloop  that  plied  between 
Long  Island  and  Boston,  touching  at  the  inter 
vening  islands  on  the  way  once  a  month  in  those 
days.  Under  their  cloaks  they  carried  a  bundle 
containing  the  long  worsted  mittens  they  had 
knitted  for  the  mother,  and  the  warm  patchwork 
quilt  they  had  made  for  the  father,  together  with 
the  highly-prized  samplers  of  that  time,  the  latter 
of  which  had  been  done  expressly  to  be  framed 
for  the  keeping-room. 

After  these  walked  in  John  Franklin,  the  tal 
low-chandler  (who  was  just  about  to  set  up  in 
Rhode  Island),  with  his  young  Quakeress  wife  on 
his  arm ;  and  then  followed  the  married  daughter, 
Abiah,  and  her  husband,  the  trader  in  furs  and 
beaver-skins,  who  had  always  an  inexhaustible 
stock  of  stories  to  tell  the  children  about  the 
Choctaw  and  Chickasaw  Indians,  including  wild 


44  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

tales  of  the  chiefs  "  Blue  Snake"  or  "  Big  Bear," 
or  even  Nekig  the  "  Little  Otter." 

Nor  did  Zachary,  the  ship-buildej*  (he  who  had 
sent  the  ducks  from  the  Potomac  River),  absent 
himself,  even  though  he  had  to  come  all  the  way 
from  Annapolis  for  the  gathering ;  and  he  brought 
with  him  his  motherless  little  boy,  for  his  young 
wife  had  died  of  the  fever  since  the  last  family 
meeting. 

There  was  Ebenezer,  too,  the  bachelor  farmer ; 
and  the  swarthy  and  stalwart  Thomas,  the  first 
born  and  hereditary  smith  of  the  family;  and 
Ruth,  with  her  half  dozen  little  ones  toddling  close 
after  her,  like  a  hen  with  her  brood  of  chicks ;  and 
Samuel  Franklin,  Uncle  Benjamin's  son  from  Lon 
don,  who  had  recently  set  up  as  a  cutler  in  Boston 
city ;  and,  indeed,  every  one  of  the  Franklins  that 
could  by  any  means  manage  to  reach  the  house  at 
the  time. 

Only  three  out  of  the  multitudinous  family  were 
absent :  James,  the  printer,  who  had  gone  to  Lon 
don  to  purchase  a  stock  of  types — Josiah,  the  out 
cast — and  Benjamin,  the  little  runaway. 

The  absence  of  the  elder  brothers  created  no 
astonishment ;  for  Josiah  had  not  sat  at  that  board 
for  years — many  of  the  young  children,  indeed, 
had  never  set  eyes  on  his  countenance — while  all 
had  heard  of  James's  trip  to  the  mother  country. 
But  where  was  Ben  ?  where  was  Ben  ?  was  the 
general  cry,  as  the  family  came  streaming  in,  one 
after  another. 

Jabez  and  Nehemiah  ran  all  over  the  house, 
shouting  after  the  little  fellow.  Esther  and  Mar 
tha,  too,  kept  teasing  Deborah  all  the  morning  to 
tell  them  where  he  had  got  to,  for  they  fancied 
he  was  hiding  from  them  in  play,  and  they  were 
itching  to  show  him  the  little  sailor's  Guernsey 
frock  they  had  knitted  for  him  at  school.  John 


THE    FBANKLIN    FAMILY.  45 

wished  to  hear  how  the  lad  got  on  at  candle- 
making,  and  whether  he  could  manage  the  dips 
yet,  and  Zachary  to  see  what  new  toy-ship  he  had 
got  on  the  stocks — and,  indeed,  every  one  to  say 
something  to  him ;  for  he  was  a  general  favorite, 
not  only  because  he  was  the  youngest  of  the  boys, 
but  because  he  was  the  cleverest  and  best-natured 
of  them  all. 

The  news  that  Ben  was  "  in  disgrace"  made  all 
as  sad  as  death  for  a  time ;  but  every  one  had  a 
kind  word  to  say  for  him  to  the  father.  The 
younger  ones  begged  hard  for  hhn;  the  elder 
ones  pleaded  well  for  him ;  so  that  Josiah  had  not 
fortitude  enough  to  hold  out  against  such  a  friend 
ly  siege,  and  was  obliged  to  promise  he  would  let 
the  boy  off  as  lightly  as  possible ;  though,  true 
to  his  principles,  the  would-be  disciplinarian  vowed 
that  the  next  time  "  he'd — he'd — but  they  should 


Mistress  Franklin  (as  the  sons  and  daughters 
came  pouring  in  one  after  another,  till  the  house 
was  so  full  of  boys  and  girls — children  and  grand 
children — that  it  was  almost  impossible,  as  has 
been  well  said,  to  shut  the  doors  for  them)  had 
enough  to  do  between  preparing  the  dinner  and 
tidying  the  young  ones  for  the  occasion ;  though 
it  almost  broke  her  housewife's  heart  to  find  how 
buttonless  and  stringless,  and  even  ragged,  their 
clothes  had  become  during  their  long  absence. 

Scarcely  had  she  kissed  the  boys  before  she 
twisted  them  round  by  the  shoulders,  as  she  eyed 
them  from  top  to  toe,  and  commenced  pouring 
down  upon  their  unlucky  heads  a  heavy  shower 
of  motherly  reproofs,  while  the  lads,  who  were 
thinking  only  of  the  feast,  kept  worrying  her  as 
to  what  she  was  going  to  give  them  for  dinner. 

"  Dear  heart !"  she  would  begin  to  one,  "  why 


46  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

don't  you  wash  up  at  the  roots  of  your  hair,  boy?" 
or  else  she  would  exclaim,  as  she  threw  up  her 
hands  and  eyebrows,  "Is  that  your  best  coat? 
Why,  you've  only  had  it  a  year,  and  it's  not  tit  to 
be  seen.  Where  you  fancy  the  clothes  come  from, 
lad,  is  more  than  I  can  tell." 

The  boy,  however,  would  merely  reply,  "  What 
pie  have  you  made  this  year,  mother?  I  hope 
it's  a  big  'un !  Let's  have  a  peep  in  the  oven — 
you  might  as  well." 

Then  to  another  she  would  cry,  as  she  seized 
him  by  his  leg  like  a  sheep,  "Why,  I  declare, 
there's  a  large  hole  in  the  heel  of  your  stocking, 
boy,  big  enough  for  a  rat  to  get  through ;  and  if 
you  were  a  sweep's  child,  I'm  sure  your  linen 
couldn't  well  be  blacker." 

But  this  one  paid  no  more  heed  than  the  other 
to  the  dame's  observations ;  for  the  only  answer 
he  made  was,  "  Got  any  honey,  mother,  for  after 
dinner?  Don't  the  ducks  smell  jolly,  Jabe — 
that's  all !  I  say,  mother,  give  us  a  sop  in  the 
pan." 

Nor  did  the  girls  undergo  a  less  minute  scru 
tiny.  "  Why  didn't  a  big  child  like  Esther  write 
home  and  say  she  wanted  new  flannels,  for  those 
she'd  on  were  enough  to  perish  her.  She  never 
saw  children  grow  so  in  all  her  life." 

"  Come  here,  girl ;  whatever  is  the  matter  with 
your  mouth?"  next  she  would  shriek,  as  she 
caught  hold  of  Martha  and  dragged  her  to  the 
light ;  "  you  want  a  good  dosing  of  nettle-tea  to 
sweeten  your  blood — that  you  do."  Whereupon, 
heaving  a  deep  sigh,  she  would  add,  "  Hah !  you 
must  all  of  you,  children,  have  a  spoonful  or  two 
of  nice  brimstone  and  treacle  before  you  leave 
home  again." 

Then,  as  soon  as  the  dame  caught  sight  of  Ruth, 
she  began  to  question  her  about  poor  little  Ben, 


THE   FRANKLIN   FAMILY.  4T 

continuing  her  cooking  operations  the  while.  At 
one  moment  she  was  asking  whether  the  lad  was 
fretting  much,  and  the  next  she  was  intent  on 
basting  her  ducks,  declaring  that  there  was  no 
leaving  them  a  minute,  or  she'd  have  them  burnt 
to  a  cinder. 

Now  she  would  fall  to  stirring  the  potful  of 
"  hominy,"  and  skimming  the  corned  beef;  then 
pausing  for  an  instant  to  tell  Ruth  how  frighten 
ed  she  had  been  when  she  found  that  poor  Ben 
had  left  the  house  that  morning,  and  begging  of 
her  to  get  Holmes  to  do  all  he  could  to  set  the 
lad  against  the  sea. 

And  when  Ruth  had  told  the  mother  that 
Holmes  w^as  obliged  to  stay  and  see  his  cargo  dis 
charged  at  the  wharf,  and  that  he  thought  it 
would  save  words  if  Ben  came  round  with  him 
in  the  evening ;  and  when  she  had  informed  her, 
moreover,  that  Ben  had  forgotten  it  was  Thanks 
giving  Day  at  home  till  he  saw  her  and  her  little 
ones  leaving  for  the  feast,  and  that  then  he  seem 
ed  to  take  it  to  heart  greatly,  the  mother  stopped 
short  in  her  examination  of  the  pie  during  the 
process  of  baking,  and  cried,  as  she  held  it  half 
drawn  out  of  the  oven,  "  I'll  put  by  a  bit  of  every 
thing  for  him,  and  he  shall  have  the  largest  cut 
of  the  pie,  that  he  shall ;"  adding  the  next  min 
ute,  "  But  he'll  be  round  in  the  evening  in  time 
for  the  stewed  fruit  and  corn-cakes — bless  him !" 

Immediately  after  this  she  began  wondering 
again  whether  that  girl  Deborah  had  thought 
about  tapping  a  fresh  cask  of  cider,  and  "  fuss 
ing,"  as  usual,  now  about  her  boy,  and  then  about 
her  dinner. 


YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  FEAST,  AND  AN  ARRIVAL. 

WHEN  all  the  family  had  assembled  in  the 
"  keeping-room,"  it  was  the  invariable  custom  of 
the  Puritan  father  on  this  day  to  offer  up  a  pray 
er  of  thanksgiving  for  his  safe  arrival  in  New  En 
gland  ;  after  which  the  violin  was  taken  out,  and 
he  would  play  while  the  family  joined  in  a  hymn. 
This  was  usually  followed  by  a  short  discourse 
from  Josiah  touching  the  great  principles  of  re 
ligious  liberty,  so  dear  to  the  early  settlers  of 
America;  for  the  sturdy  old  Non-conformist  loved 
to  impress  upon  the  children  gathered  round  him 
that  he  had  left  the  home  where  his  forefathers 
had  lived  for  many  generations,  not  to  seek 
"treasures  that  moth  and  rust  corrode,"  but 
merely  to  be  able  to  worship  the  Almighty  as  he 
thought  fit,  and  which  was  held  to  be  a  crime  at 
that  time  in  his  native  land.* 

*  "My  father  married  young,  and  carried  his  wife  with 
three  children  to  New  England  about  1685.  The  conven 
ticles  being,  at  that  time,  forbidden  by  law,  and  frequently 
disturbed  in  the  meetings,  some  considerable  men  of  his  ac 
quaintance  determined  to  go  to  that  country,  and  he  was 
persuaded  to  accompany  them  thither,  where  they  expected 
to  enjoy  the  exercise  of  their  religion  with«freedom.  *  *  * 
Our  humble  family  early  embraced  the  Reformed  religion," 
writes  Benjamin  Franklin.  ' '  Our  forefathers  had  an  English 
Bible,  and  to  conceal  it,  and  place  it  in  safety,  it  was  fasten 
ed  open  with  tapes  under  and  within  the  cover  of  a  joint- 
stool.  When  my  great-grandfather  wished  to  read  it  to  his 
family,  he  placed  the  joint-stool  on  his  knees,  and  then  turn 
ed  over  the  leaves  under  the  tapes.  One  of  the  children 
stood  at  the  door  to  give  notice  if  he  saw  the  apparitor  com 
ing,  who  was  an  officer  of  the  Spiritual  Court.  .  .  .  This  an- 


THE    FEAST,  AND    AN    AEB1VAL.  49 

The  family  devotions  and  discourse  were  bare 
ly  ended  ere  the  "  cuckoo  clock"  whooped  twelve, 
and  immediately  a  crow  of  delight  from  the 
younger  branch  of  the  Franklin  family  announced 
the  entry  of  the  corned  beef  and  dough-nuts. 

Such  manifestations  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
palate,  we  have  before  said,  were  highly  disap 
proved  of  by  the  simple-minded  Josiah ;  so,  as 
his  eye  suddenly  lighted  upon  the  young  carpen 
ter's  apprentice  in  the  act  of  rubbing  his  waist 
coat,  and  drawing  in  his  breath  in  youthful  ecsta 
sy,  the  ascetic  father  cried,  with  a  shake  of  the 
head, 

"  Jabez,  how  often  have  I  told  you  that  this 
giving  way  to  carnal  joys  is  little  better  than  a 
heathen !" 

But  scarcely  had  the  parent  finished  chiding 
one  son  than  he  was  startled  by  a  loud  smacking 
of  the  lips  from  another ;  when,  glancing  in  the 
direction  of  the  sound,  he  found  the  young  mason 
with  his  mouth  and  eyes  wide  open,  in  positive 
raptures  as  he  sniffed  the  savory  odor  of  the 
brown  and  smoking  canvas-back  ducks  that  Deb 
orah  was  about  to  place  at  the  bottom  of  the 
table. 

"  I'm  ashamed  of  yon,  ISTehemiah,"  the  tallow- 
chandler  shouted,  as  he  frowned  at  the  lad,  "  giv 
ing  up  your  heart  to  the  vanities  of  this  world  in 
such  a  manner !" 

A  secret  pull  at  his  coat-tails,  however,  from 
Uncle  Benjamin,  cut  short  the  lecture,  for  the 

ecdote, "  Franklin  adds,  "  I  had  from  Uncle  Benjamin.  The 
family  continued, "  he  then  proceeds  to  say,  "all  of  the  Church 
of  England  till  about  the  end  of  Charles  II. 's  reign,  when 
some  of  the  ministers  who  had  been  '  outed'  for  their  non 
conformity  having  opened  a  conventicle  in  Northamptonshire, 
my  uncle  Benjamin  and  my  father  adhered  to  them,  and  so 
continued  all  their  lives." — Franklin's  Autobiography,  p.  5. 


50  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

father  knew  that  the  friendly  hint  meant  to  im 
ply,  "It's  only  once  a  year,  Josh !" 

At  length  the  dinner  was  ended,  grace  said,  and 
a  button  or  two  of  the  boys'  waistcoats  undone ; 
and  then  the  table  itself  was  got  out  of  the  way, 
and  the  games  commenced. 

This,  however,  was  a  part  of  the  entertainment 
that  the  seriously-inclined  Josiah  was  but  little 
given  to ;  and,  indeed,  it  required  some  more  of 
Uncle  Ben's  good-humored  bantering  before  he 
could  be  induced  to  consent  to  it.  Even  then  he 
insisted  that  the  children  should  play  at  "  Mas 
ters  and  Men,"  because  there  was  a  certain 
amount  of  knowledge  to  be  gained  from  the  rep 
resentations  of  the  various  trades ;  for  nothing 
annoyed  him  more  than  to  see  youth  wasting  its 
time  in  mere  idle  amusements. 

But,  the  ice  of  propriety  once  broken,  Uncle 
Ben  and  the  children  were  soon  engaged  in  the 
most  boisterous  and  childish  gambols :  not  only 
was  "  dropping  the  'kerchief"  indulged  in,  and 
the  grave  Josiah  himself  made  to  form  part  in  the 
ring,  but  even  the  wild  frolic  of  "jingling"  was 
resorted  to,  and  the  father  and  mother,  and  Un 
cle  Ben,  and  Zachary  the  ship-builder,  and  Ruth 
too,  as  well  as  young  Abiah  and  her  husband  the 
trapper,  and  John  and  his  young  Quakeress  wife, 
and,  indeed,  the  entire  company,  were  all  pressed 
into  the  service,  and  every  one  of  them  blindfold 
ed  at  the  same  time,  while  the  part  of  "  jingler" 
fell  to  the  lot  of  Nehemiah,  who  ran  about  the 
keeping-room  like  a  frantic  young  town  crier, 
ringing  the  hand-bell  to  give  notice  of  his  where 
abouts  to  the  blind  players,  as  they  kept  rolling 
continually  one  over  the  other  in  their  eagerness 
to  catch  him. 

Jt  was  at  this  moment,  when  the  noise  and 


THE   FEAST,  AND   AN    ARRIVAL.  51 

madness  of  the  sport  had  reached  their  greatest 
height,  and  the  father  and  Uncle  Benjamin  lay 
flat  upon  the  floor,  with  a  miscellaneous  mound  of 
children  and  grandchildren  piled  on  top  of  them, 
that  James  Franklin — the  young  printer,  who  had 
gone  to  London  for  a  stock  of  types  and  presses 
— burst  into  the  room,  fresh  from  the  vessel  that 
had  just  dropped  anchor  in  the  bay,  and  with  his 
arms  laden  with  packets  of  presents  for  the  sev 
eral  members  of  the  family. 

"Here's  brother  James  come  back  from  Old 
England !"  shouted  N  ehemiah,  throwing  away  his 
bell. 

In  an  instant  the  bandages  were  torn  from  all 
the  faces,  and  the  half-ashamed  father  dragged 
from  under  the  bodies  struggling  on  top  of  him, 
the  newly-arrived  son  laughing  heartily  the  while. 

As  the  children,  and  the  grown  brothers,  and 
the  rest  came  scrambling  up  to  kiss  or  shake 
hands  with  the  printer  on  his  return,  he  told  them 
one  after  the  other  the  gift  he  had  brought  them 
from  the  "  old  country  ;"  and  when  he  had  greet 
ed  the  whole  of  the  company  present,  he  stared 
round  and  round,  and  then  glancing  at  Josiah, 
cried,  "  But  where's  little  Ben,  father  ?" 

Josiah  averted  his  head,  for  he  had  no  wish  to 
mar  the  general  happiness  by  again  alluding  to 
his  boy's  disgrace,  while  the  mother  shook  her 
head  significantly  at  the  printer,  and  Uncle  Ben 
jamin  gave  him  a  secret  kick. 

James  knew  by  the  pantomimic  hints  that 
something  was  amiss ;  so  he  answered,  "  What ! 
not  allowed  to  be  present  on  Thanksgiving  Day  ? 
Surely,  father,  one  outcast  in  the  family  is 
enough !" 

"  There,  say  nothing  about  it,  lad,"  cried  Uncle 
Ben ;  "  it's  all  been  looked  over  long  ago,  and  the 
little  fellow  will  be  here  to  supper  shortly.  But 


52  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

come,  let's  have  the  news,  Master  James.  You 
went  down  to  Ecton,  of  course  ?"  he  added ;  and 
the  young  man  had  scarcely  signified  that  he  had 
made  the  journey,  when  the  father  and  uncle, 
anxious  to  know  all  about  their  native  village, 
and  the  companions  of  their  youth,  fired  off  such 
a  volley  of  questions  that  it  was  more  than  James 
could  do  to  answer  them  fast  enough. 

Had  he  been  to  the  old  smithy  ?  inquired  one ; 
and  had  he  got  a  slip  of  the  "  golden  pippin"-tree 
in  the  orchard  ? 

Was  Mistress  Fisher  still  living  at  the  forge  ? 
asked  the  other;  and  who  carried  on  the  busi 
ness  now  that  their  brother  Thomas's  son  was 
dead? 

"  Dear !  dear !"  they  both  cried,  as  they  heard 
the  answer,  "the  smithy  sold  to  Squire  Isted, 
the  lord  of  the  manor,*  and  the  old  forge  pulled 
down  ?  Well !  well !  what  changes  do  come  to 
pass !" 

Next  it  was,  How  was  their  new  German  king, 
George  I.,  liked  by  the  people  at  home?  And 
did  he  go  and  have  a  mug  of  ale  at  the  "  World's 
End?"  and  did  Dame  Blason  keep  the  old  inn 
still  ?  Did  he  go  to  meeting,  too,  at  the  North 
ampton  Conventicle,  and  learn  whether  the 
"  Brownists"  were  increasing  in  numbers  round 
about  ?  and  was  old  Luke  Fuller,  who  was  "  out- 
ed"  for  non-conformity  at  the  time  when  they 
themselves  seceded  from  the  Church,  the  minister 
there  still  ? 

And  when  James  had  replied  that  the  good 
man  had  departed  this  life  two  years  come  Mich- 

*  "My  grandfather's  eldest  son,  Thomas,  lived  in  tho 
house  at  Ecton,  and  left  it,  with  the  land,  to  his  only  daugh 
ter,  who,  with  her  husband,  one  Fisher,  of  Wellingborough, 
sold  it  to  Mr.  Isted,  now  lord  of  the  manor." — Life  of  Frank- 
/in,  p.  3. 


THE    FEAST,  AND    AN    ARRIVAL.  63 

aelmas,  the  old  people  hung  down  their  heads  as 
they  sighed,  "  Hah !  it  will  be  our  turn  soon." 

Then  they  wanted  to  know,  Were  the  rebels  in 
Scotland  all  quiet  when  he  left  ?  and  had  he  been 
over  to  Banbury,  and  seen  the  dye-house,  and  had 
John  Franklin  still  got  the  best  of  the  business 
there  ? 

Had  he  set  eyes  on  their  old  schoolfellow,  Reu 
ben  of  the  Mill  ?  and  was  old  Ned,  the  traveling 
butcher,  still  alive  ?  And  who  held  the  "  hund 
red-acre  farm"  of  the  young  Lord  Halifax  now  ? 
And  did  the  Non-conformists  seem  contented 
with  the  "  Toleration  Act  ?"  and  was  there  any 
stir  among  them  about  getting  the  "  Corporation 
Act"  repealed  ?  And  was  Squire  Palmer's  widow 
living  at  the  Hall  still  ?  And  had  he  been  over 
and  seen  the  folk  at  Earls-Barton  and  Mears- 
Ashby,  and  told  them  that  they  were  all  doing 
well  in  New  England  ?  Hah !  they  would  give 
the  world  to  set  eyes  on  the  old  places  and  the 
old  people  again. 

The  gossip  about  their  native  village  and  an 
cient  friends  would  have  continued,  doubtlessly, 
until  bedtime,  had  not  Jabez,  who  had  a  turn  for 
that  extravagant  pantomime  which  boys  consider 
funny,  here  danced  wildly  into  the  room  after  the 
style  of  the  Red  Indians  that  his  brother-in-law 
the  trapper  had  just  been  telling  them  about,  and 
springing  into  the  air  with  a  cry  imitative  of  the 
war-whoop,  announced  to  the  startled  company 
that  the  "Big  Bear"  and  "Little  Otter"  were 
coming  up  the  stairs  to  join  the  party. 

Whereupon  Captain  Holmes  and  the  truant 
Benjamin  entered  the  room. 


54  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    1'BANKLIN. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  FATHER'S  LECTURE. 

"  COME  this  way,  Benjamin !  I  wish  to  speak 
with  you  below,"  said  the  father,  gravely,  as  soon 
as  the  lad  had  gone  the  round  of  his  relatives, 
and  just  at  the  interesting  moment  when  the  "car 
nal-minded"  Jabez  was  making  Ben's  mouth  wa 
ter  with  a  list  of  the  many  good  things  they  had 
had  for  dinner  that  day. 

The  paternal  command  caused  no  little  excite 
ment  among  the  youthful  members  of  the  family, 
who  knew  too  well  what  the  summons  meant. 

But  scarcely  had  Josiah  removed  one  of  the 
lighted  candles  from  the  mantle-shelf  to  carry 
with  him  to  the  parlor,  than  the  mother  rose  and 
followed  close  at  the  heels  of  the  father  and  the 
chap-fallen  boy;  while  Jabez  and  Nehemiah  nudg 
ed  one  another  aside,  as  they  whispered,  "  Let's 
come  too,  and  see  what  father's  going  to  do  with 
Ben." 

To  satisfy  their  curiosity,  the  anxious  lads  avail 
ed  themselves  of  the  darkness  of  the  shop,  where 
they  stood,  quiet  as  mutes,  peeping  over  the  cur 
tain  into  the  little  back  room,  and  watching  "the 
movements  of  their  parents  within. 

"  Father's  lecturing  him  well,  I  can  see,"  whis 
pered  Jabez,  on  tiptoe,  to  the  brother  at  his  side, 
"  for  he  is  shaking  his  head  till  his  gray  locks  fly 
about  again,  and  holding  up  his  forefinger  as  he 
always  does,  you  know,  when  he's  talking  very 
seriously." 

"What's  mother  doing?"  asked  the  brother. 


•Father  a  lecturing  liim  well,  I  can  see. 


THE  FATHER'S  LECTURE.  5? 

"  Why,  she's  got  Ben  drawn  close  up  to  her, 
and  keeps  passing  her  hand  over  his  cheek,"  an^ 
swered  Jabez.  "  How  aged  father  gets  to  look, 
doesn't  he  ?"  the  boy  added,  almost  in  the  same 
breath,  for  he  could  not  help  remarking  the 
change,  now  that  his  whole  attention  was  riveted 
on  his  parent's  figure.  "  He's  got  to  stoop  dread 
fully  since  last  Thanksgiving  Day." 

"  Yes,"  observed  the  other,  "  that  Sunday  gray 
coat  of  his,  that  he's  had  ever  since  I  can  remem 
ber,  gets  to  hang  about  him  like  a  smock-frock, 
that  it  does.  I  was  thinking  so  only  just  before 
dinner,  Jabe." 

"  Ah !  and  mother  isn't  so  young  as  she  used 
to  be,"  mournfully  continued  Jabez,  "  for  she  gets 
to  look  more  like  old  grandfather  Folger  in  the 
face  every — " 

"  What's  that  noise  ?"  whispered  Nehemiah,  as 
a  loud  scuffle  was  heard  in  the  parlor. 

"  Why,  father's  just  dragged  Benjamin  from 
mother's  arms,"  was  the  answer,  "  for  she  kept 
hugging  and  kissing  him  all  the  time  he  was  lec 
turing  him.  Hush !  I  shall  hear  what  he  says 
directly,  for  he's  talking  much  louder  now." 

"What's  he  telling  him,  eh?"  inquired  the 
young  mason,  in  an  under  tone,  after  holding  his 
breath  till  he  felt  half  stifled  with  his  suspense. 

"  I  can  just  make  out  that  he's  very  angry  with 
mother  for  petting  Ben  as  she  does,"  replied  the 
little  carpenter,  "because  father  says  'it  makes 
his  conduct  appear  undeservedly  harsh,  and  strips 
his  reproofs' — yes,  those  were  his  words — '  of  all 
the  force  that  justice  would  otherwise  give  them.' 
Isn't  that  like  father,  ISTee  ?" 

"  Yes,"  added  the  brother ;  "  he  may  be  a  little 
severe  at  times,  but  he's  always  very  just  with  us, 
I'm  sure ;  and  mother,  you  know,  will  spoil  Ben, 
because  he's  the  youngest  of  us  boys." 


58  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

"  Be  quiet,  Nee !"  said  Jabez,  as  he  kicked  his 
brother  gently  to  enforce  the  command,  and  put 
his  ear  closer  to  the  door.  "  Father's  saying  now 
that  if  Ben  doesn't  like  the  candle-making — yes" 
— and  the  lad  paused  to  catch  the  remainder  of 
the  speech — "he'll  let  him  choose  a  trade  for 
himself.  What  do  you  think  of  that  ?" 

"  Why,  that  comes  of  Uncle  Benjamin  being 
here,"  interposed  Nehemiah.  "  Uncle's  been  hav 
ing  a  long  talk  with  father  about  the  matter,  I 
can  see." 

"  Do  be  quiet,  will  you,  or  I  shall  miss  it  all," 
cried  Jabez,  tetchily.  "  What's  that  he's  saying 
now  ?"  the  lad  inquired,  talking  to  himself,  as  he 
strove  to  catch  the  words.  "Father's  warning 
Ben,"  he  added,  in  measured  sentences,  as  he  fol 
lowed  the  old  man's  voice,  "  that  when  he's  chosen 
another  trade — if  he  ever  runs  away  from  his 
work  again — he'll  close  his  doors  against  him 
forever,  the  same  as  he  did  with  his  outcast  son 
Josiah." 

An  hour  or  two  after  the  above  scene,  the  three 
boys,  fresh  from  their  supper  of  stewed  peaches 
and  hot  corn-cakes  (of  which  the  mother  had 
given  her  pet  boy  Ben  double  allowance),  had 
retired  to  the  little  attic  for  the  night,  and  when 
Jabez  and  Nehemiah  had  heard  from  their  broth 
er  all  about  his  running  away,  and  the  wonderful 
"  Flying  Dutchman"  (clipper  built)  that  he'd  got 
nearly  ready  for  launching,  they  began  to  gossip 
among  themselves,  as  boys  are  wont  to  do,  while 
they  prepared  for  bed. 

First,  Ben's  Guinea-pig  was  taken  out,  and  ex 
hibited  to  the  admiring  brothers,  who,  boy-like, 
were  young  "fanciers,"  not  only  of  Guinea-pigs, 
but  of  every  pet  animal  in  creation,  from  white 
mice  to  monkeys ;  whereupon  they  immediately 


THE  FATHER'S  LECTURE.  &» 

commenced  discussing  the  comparative  beauties 
of  the  " black,"  the  "tortoise-shell,"  and  the 
"  fawn"  kinds  of  African  porkers,  one  saying  that 
"  too  many  tea-leaves  were  not  good  for  them,  as 
they  made  them  pot-bellied,"  and  the  other  re 
marking  that  "  he  didn't  like  Guinea-pigs  because 
they  ate  their  young  like  rabbits ;"  a  circumstance 
which  suddenly  reminded  him  of  a  "  double-smut" 
of  his  acquaintance  that  "  had  devoured  her  whole 
litter  of  six,  every  bit  of  them  except  their  tails, 
but  those  she  couldn't  swallow  because  they  were 
so  fluffy." 

This  led  to  a  long  discourse  on  rabbits  in  gen 
eral,  when  Jabez  dived  very  learnedly  into  the 
varieties  of  "  double-lops,"  and  "  horn-lops,"  and 
"  oar-lops,"  as  well  as  the  "  up-eared"  species,  and 
told  tales  of  wonderful  does,  the  tips  of  whose 
"  fancy  ears"  had  touched  the  ground,  and  meas 
ured  more  than  a  foot  in  length. 

After  this  the  conversation  branched  off  to 
pigeons,  young  Benjamin  observing  that  if  Jabc 
would  only  make  him  a  "snap-trap,"  he'd  keep 
some  "  tumblers"  in  their  loft,  for  Captain  Holmes 
had  just  brought  Bobby  a  couple  of  beautiful 
"soft -billed  almonds"  from  London;  besides, 
there  was  a  prime  place  for  a  pigeon-house  against 
their  melting-shed,  and  a  schoolfellow  of  his  at 
old  Brownell's  had  promised  to  give  him  a  pair 
of  splendid-hooded  "  Jacobins"  and  some  "  Leg 
horn  runts"  for  stock  directly  he'd  got  a  place  to 
keep  them  in,  so  Jabe  might  as  well  make  a  house 
for  him  in  his  over-time. 

Presently  the  young  carpenter  and  mason  pro 
ceeded  to  compare  notes  as  to  the  strength  of  the 
"  sky-blue,"  and  the  thickness  of  the  butter  on 
the  "  scrape"  at  their  respective  masters,  and  to 
talk  of  the  wives  of  those  gentlemen  as  "  old 
Mother  So-and-So,"  until,  tired  of  this  subject, 


60  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

the  youthful  trio  digressed  into  ghost-stories,  and 
so  frightened  each  other  with  their  hobgoblin 
tales,  that,  as  the  candle  sputtered  and  flickered 
in  the  socket,  they  trembled  at  every  rattle  of  the 
window-sashes,  till  sleep  put  an  end  to  their  ter 
rors  and  their  talk. 

At  length  the  morning  arrived  when  the  youn 
ger  branches  of  the  Franklin  family  were  to  re 
turn  to  their  masters  and  mistresses,  and  then  the 
dame  was  in  the  same  flurry  as  on  the  day  of 
their  arrival  with  the  preparation  of  the  hundred 
and  one  things  required  at  her  hands. 

On  the  table  before  her  lay  a  small  lot  of  brown, 
worsted  stockings  done  up  into  balls  that  resem 
bled  so  many  unwashed  potatoes,  and  new  can 
vas  smocks  for  the  boys  to  work  in  (short  as  ba 
bies'  shirts),  and  new  shoes  too,  the  soles  of  which 
were  studded  with  nails  almost  as  big  as  those 
on  a  church  door,  as  well  as  mobcaps,  and  tip 
pets,  and  aprons  for  the  girls,  after  the  style  of 
our  charity  children  of  the  present  day,  and  hanks 
of  worsted  yarn  for  knitting,  and  seed-cakes,  and 
bags  of  spiced  nuts,  together  with  a  jar  of  honey 
for  each  of  them,  besides  a  packet  of  dried  herbs 
to  be  made  into  tea,  to  "  purify  their  blood"  at 
the  spring  and  fall  of  the  year. 

When,  too,  the  dreaded  hour  of  departure  ar 
rived,  and  the  boys'  bundles  had  been  made  up, 
and  the  girls'  hand-baskets  ready  packed  for  the 
journey,  the  tears  of  the  mother  and  little  ones 
rolled  down  their  cheeks  as  fast  and  big  as  hail 
stones  down  a  skylight;  and,  as  the  weeping 
children  crossed  the  threshold,  the  eager  dame 
stood  on  the  door-step,  watching  them  down  the 
narrow  street,  and  calling  after  them  to  remind 
them  of  an  infinity  of  small  things  they  were  to 
be  sure  and  do  directly  they  reached  their  des 
tination. 


A    TALK    ABOUT   THE    SEA.  61 

Ben,  too,  on  his  part,  kept  shouting  to  Jabez 
"  not  to  forget  to  make  him  the  pigeon-house  as 
soon  as  he  could  get  the  wood,"  and  calling  to  the 
young  mason  to  remember  to  send  him  some 
prime  "  bonces"  and  "  alleys"  directly  he  got  back 
to  the  stone-yard. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A   TALK   ABOUT    THE    SEA. 

ON  the  evening  after  the  Thanksgiving  Day 
Captain  Holmes  came  round,  when  they  had 
"  knocked  off  work"  at  the  ship,  to  smoke  his 
pipe  with  Josiah  and  Uncle  Benjamin — for  the 
father  wished  the  captain  to  talk  with  young  Ben 
about  his  love  of  the  sea;  so  the  dame  had  made 
one  of  her  famous  bowls  of"  lambs'-wool"  for  the 
occasion. 

The  captain  was  a  marked  contrast,  both  in 
form  and  feature,  to  Josiah  and  his  brother  Ben 
jamin.  His  frame  seemed,  indeed,  to  be  of  cast 
iron,  his  chest  being  broad  as  a  bison's,  and  the 
grip  of  his  big,  hard  hand  like  the  squeeze  of  a 
vice.  His  face  was  gipsy-bronze  with  the  weath 
er  he  had  long  been  exposed  to,  and  set  in  a 
horseshoe  of  immense  black  whiskers,  the  hair  of 
which  stood  out  from  the  cheeks  on  either  side 
like  a  couple  of  sweep's  brushes ;  and  between 
these  his  white  teeth  glistened  like  the  pearly 
lining  of  an  oyster-shell  as  he  laughed,  which  he 
did  continually,  and  almost  without  reason. 

The  old  men,  on  the  other  hand,  were  but  the 
noble  ruins  of  humanity,  graced  rather  than  dis 
figured  by  age.  At  the  time  of  the  opening  of 
our  story  Josiah  was  in  his  sixty-third  year,  and 
Uncle  Benjamin  some  few  years  his  senior ;  and 


C2  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

yet  neither  gave  signs  of  the  approach  of  that 
second  childhood  which  is  but  the  return  of  the 
circle  of  life  into  itself,  linking  the  graybeard  with 
the  infant,  and  foreshadowing  the  Eternal  in  that 
mysterious  round  which  brings  us  back  (if  the 
furlough  from  above  be  but  long  enough)  to  the 
very  babyhood  from  which  we  started. 

The  red  Saxon  blood,  as  contradistinguished 
from  the  swarthier  Norman  sap  inherent  in  En 
glish  veins,  was  visible  in  the  cheeks  of  both  of 
the  old  men;  indeed,  their  complexion  was  so 
pinky  that  one  could  well  understand  their  boast 
that  "they  had  never  known  a  day's  illness  in 
their  lives  ;"*  while  their  fresh  color  contrasted  as 
pleasantly  with  their  silver-white  hair  as  the  crim 
son  light  of  a  blacksmith's  forge  glowing  amid 
the  snow  of  a  winter's  day.  The  only  sign  that 
the  brothers  gave  of  age  was  a  slight  crooking  of 
the  back,  like  packmen  bending  beneath  their  load 
— of  years ;  for  their  teeth  were  still  perfect,  nei 
ther  was  the  mouth  drawn  in,  nor  were  the  cheeks 
hollowed  with  the  capacious  dimples  of  second 
childhood. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  "  sad  color"  and  formal 
Quaker-like  cut  of  their  clothes,  no  one  would 
have  fancied  that  they  belonged  to  that  heroic 
and  righteous  body  of  men,  who,  following  in  the 
footsteps  of  the  first  "  pilgrims"  to  America,  had 
willingly  submitted  to  the  martyrdom  of  exile  for 
the  sake  of  enjoying  the  free  exercise  of  their  re 
ligion;  for  the  hale  and  hearty  Josiah  had  the 
cheerful  and  contented  look  of  the  English  yeo 
man,  while  the  more  portly  and  dumpy  Benjamin 
had  so  good-humored  an  air  that  he  might  have 

*  "I  never  knew  my  father  or  mother  to  have  any  sick 
ness  but  that  of  which  they  died — he  at  80,  and  she  at  85 
years  of  age." — Autobiography,  i>.  9. 


A    TALK    ABOUT   THE    SEA.  63 

been  mistaken,  in  another  suit,  for  the  jolly  land 
lord  of  a  roadside  inn.* 

Mistress  Franklin,  being  some  dozen  years 
younger  than  her  husband,  and  looking  even 
younger  than  she  was,  seemed  barely  to  have 
reached  the  summit  of  life's  hill  rather  than  to 
have  commenced  her  journey  down  it.  True,  a 
quick  eye  might  have  discovered  just  a  filament 
or  two  of  silver  streaking  the  dark  bands  of  hair 
that  braided  her  forehead ;  but  these  were  merely 
the  hoar-frosts  of  Autumn  whitening  the  spider's 
threads,  for  as  yet  there  was  no  trace  of  Winter 
in  her  face. 

At  the  first  glance,  however,  there  was  a  half 
masculine  look  about  the  dame  that  made  her 
seem  deficient  in  the  softer  qualities  of  feminine 
grace ;  for  her  features,  though  regular,  were  too 
bold  and  statuesque  to  be  considered  beautiful  in 
a  woman,  and  yet  there  was  such  exquisite  ten 
derness — indeed,  a  plaintiveness  that  was  almost 
musical — in  her  voice,  together  with  such  a  good 
expression,  glowing  like  sunshine  over  her  whole 
countenance,  that  the  stranger  soon  felt  as  assured 
of  her  excellence  as  those  even  who  had  proved  it 
by  long  acquaintance. 

The  wife,  too,  belonged  to  the  same  Puritan 
stock  as  Josiah ;  her  father — "  Peter  Folger,  of 
Sherbourne,"  in  ISTantucket — having  been  among 
the  earliest  pilgrims  to  New  England,  and  being 
styled  u  a  godly  and  learned  Englishman"  in  the 
chronicles  of  the  country.f 

*  "I  suppose  you  may  like  to  know  what  kind  of  a  man 
my  father  was,"  says  Benjamin  Franklin  in  writing  to  his 
son.  "He  had  an  excellent  constitution,  was  of  a  middle 
stature,  well  set,  and  very  strong." 

t  "My  mother  (the  second  wife  of  my  father)  was  Abiah 
Folger,  daughter  of  Peter  Folger,  one  of  the  first  settlers  of 
New  England,  of  whom  honorable  mention  is  made  by  Cot 
ton  Mather  in  his  ecclesiastical  history  of  that  country,  en- 


C4  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

The  simplicity  of  her  dress,  however,  consti 
tuted  the  chief  mark  of  her  conventicle  training. 
The  main  characteristic  of  her  appearance  was 
the  immaculate  cleanliness  as  well  as  the  fastidi 
ous  neatness  of  her  attire.  There  was  so  much  of 
white,  indeed,  about  her  (what  with  the  mobcap, 
the  muslin  kerchief  crossed  over  her  bosom,  and 
the  ample  linen  apron  covering  her  skirt  (that  she 
always  looked  fresh  and  tidy  as  a  dairy — snowy 
as  suds  themselves.  Her  dress,  too,  was  as  free 
as  a  moonlight  scene  from  all  positive  color,  for 
even  the  mere  fillet  of  ribbon  which  she  wore 
round  her  cap  was  black,  and  her  stuff  gown  it 
self  gray  as  a  friar's  garment. 

"  I've  been  pointing  out  to  the  youngster  here, 
father,"  proceeded  the  captain,  as  he  punctuated 
his  speech  with  the  puffs  of  his  pipe,  when  the 
subject  of  the  evening's  conversation  had  been 
fairly  broached,  "  what  a  dog's  life  a  sailor's  is, 
and  asking  him  how  he'd  like  to  live  all  his  time 
upon  maggoty  biscuits  and  salt  junk,  that  goes 
by  the  name  of  '  mahogany'  aboard  a  ship — be 
cause  it's  so  hard  and  red,  and  much  easier  carved 
into  chess-men  than  it's  chewed  and  digested,  I 
can  tell  you.  I've  been  asking  him,  too,  how 
he'd  like  to  have  to  drink  water  that's  as  black 
and  putrid,  ay !  and  smells,  while  it's  being  pump 
ed  out  of  the  casks  in  the  hold,  as  strong  as  if  it 
was  being  drawn  out  of  a  cesspool,  so  that  one's 

flad  to  strain  it  through  the  corner  of  his  hand- 
erchief  while  drinking  it  from  the  '  tots.'     And, 
what's  more,  youngster,  you'd  get  only  short  al 
lowance  of  this  stuif,  I  can  tell  you ;  for  over  and 
over  again,  when  I  was  a  boy  aboard  the  '  Francis 

titled  Magnolia  Christi  Americana,  as  'a  godly  and  learned 
Englishman,'  if  I  remember  the  words  rightly." — Life  of 
Franklin,  p.  C. 


A    TALK    ABOUT    THE    SEA.  65 

Drake,'  I  give  you  my  word  I've  been  that  dry  in 
the  tropics  (what  with  the  salt  food,  that  was  like 
munching  solid  brine,  and  the  sun  right  overhead 
like  a  red-hot  warming-pan)  that  I've  drunk  the 
sea-water  itself  to  moisten  my  mouth,  till  I've 
been  driven  nearly  mad  with  the  burning  fury  of 
the  thirst  that  was  on  me.  Ah !  you  youngsters, 
Ben,  little  know  wThat  we  sailors  have  to  put  up 
with ;  for,  mind  you,  lad,  I'm  not  pitching  you 
any  stiff  yarn  here  about  wrecks,  and  being  cast 
away  on  rafts,  and  drawing  lots  as  to  who's  to  be 
devoured  by  the  others,  but  what  I'm  telling  you 
is  the  simple  e  very-day  life  of  the  seaman,  ay !  and 
of  half  the  '  reefers,'  too." 

Here  the  captain  paused  to  indulge  in  his  habit 
ual  chuckle  (for  it  was  all  the  same  to  him  whether 
the  subject  in  hand  was  serious  or  comic),  while 
Mistress  Franklin  looked  perfectly  horror-stricken 
at  the  account  of  the  water  her  boy  had  been,  as 
it  were,  just  on  the  point  of  drinking. 

Little  Ben  himself,  however,  was  not  yet  "  at 
home"  enough  to  make  any  remark,  but  sat  on  the 
stool  at  his  mother's  feet,  with  his  eyes  counting 
the  grains  of  sand  on  the  floor,  for  he  was  still 
ashamed  to  meet  his  father's  gaze. 

As  for  Josiah,  he  was  but  little  moved  by  the 
captain's  picture  of  the  miseries  of  seafaring,  and 
merely  observed  that,  as  he  had  taught  his  chil 
dren  to  abstain  from  hankering  after  the  "flesh- 
pots,"  Ben  could  bear  the  absence  of  creature 
comforts  better  than  most  boys — a  remark  that 
set  the  captain  chuckling  again  in  good  earnest. 

"  What  you  say,  father,  about  hankering  after 
the  'flesh-pots'  is  all  very  well,"  continued  the 
good-humored  sailor,  as  he  tittered,  while  he  tap 
ped  the  ashes  from  the  bowl  of  his  pipe;  "but  if 
you'd  had  a  twelvemonth  on  mahogany  and  sea- 
biscuits  as  hard  and  dry  as  tiles,  you  yourself 


66  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

would  get  hankering  after  a  bit  of '  soft  tommy' 
(that's  our  name  for  new  bread,  Ben),  and  a  cut 
of  roast  beef,  I'll  be  bound ;  ay !  ay !  and  think 
the  fat  old  bum-boat  woman,  that  comes  off  to 
the  ship  with  a  cargo  of  fresh  quartern  loaves  di 
rectly  you  make  the  land,  the  loveliest  female  in 
all  creation.  But,"  added  Captain  Holmes,  after  a 
long  pull  at  a  fresh  mug  of  the  delicious  "  lambs'- 
wool,"  "  there  are  worse  things  aboard  a  ship,  let 
me  tell  you,  Ben,  than  even  the  rations.  Young 
sters  think  seafaring  a  fine  life  because  it's  full  of 
danger,  and  looks  pretty  enough  from  the  shore ; 
but  only  let  them  come  to  have  six  months  of  it 
'tween  decks,  cooped  up  in  a  berth  little  bigger 
than  a  hutch,  and  as  dark  and  close  as  a  prison 
cell,  directly  the  wind  gets  a  little  bit  fresh  and 
the  scuttles  and  port-holes  have  to  be  closed ;  and 
to  be  kept  out  of  their  hammocks  half  the  night, 
with  the  watches  that  must  be  kept  on  deck  wet 
or  dry,  fair  or  foul — ay !  and  to  be  roused  out, 
too,  as  soon  as  they  get  off  to  sleep — after  the 
middle  watch,  maybe — to  reef  topsa'ls,  or  take  in 
to'-gallan'-sa'ls,  or  what  not,  whenever  a  squall 
springs  up — only  let  them  have  a  taste  of  this,  I 
say,  and  they  soon  begin  to  sing  another  song,  I 
can  tell  you.  Why,  when  I  was  'prentice  on  board 
the  '  Francis  Drake,'  I've  often  been  put  to  walk 
the  deck  with  a  capsta'n-bar  over  my  shoulder, 
and  a  bucket  of  water  at  the  end  of  it,  to  keep 
me  awake,  and  even  then  I've  been  that  drowsy 
that  I've  paraded  up  and  down  by  the  gangway 
as  fast  asleep  as  if  I'd  been  a  som — som — what 
do  you  call  it  ?" 

"  -nambulist,"  suggested  Uncle  Benjamin. 

"  Ay,  ay,  that's  it,  mate,"  nodded  the  captain, 
with  another  laugh.  "  And  over  and  over  again, 
when  I've  sneaked  away  to  pick  out  a  soft  plank 
between  the  hen-coops,  and  have  just  dropped  off 


A    TALK    ABOUT    THE    SEA.  67 

the  second  mate  has  found  me  out,  and  come  and 
emptied  two  or  three  buckets  of  salt  water  over 
me,  and  set  me  off  striking  out  as  if  I  was  swim 
ming,  for  I'd  be  fancying  in  my  sleep,  you  see, 
that  the  vessel  had  got  on  a  reef,  and  was  filling 
and  going  fast  to  the  bottom. 

"  But  the  worst  of  all,  lad,"  the  sailor  went  on, 
when  he  had.  done  puffing  away  at  his  pipe,  so  as 
to  rekindle  its  half-extinguished  fire,  "is  to  be 
roused  out  of  your  sleep  with  the  bo's'ain's  whistle 
ringing  in  your  ears,  and  the  cry  of '  A  man  over 
board  !  a  man  overboard  !'  shouted  on  every  side." 

"  Ah !  that  must  be  terrible  indeed,"  shudder 
ed  Mrs.  Franklin,  as  she  covered  her  face  with 
her  palms  in  horror  at  the  thought. 

Little  Ben,  however,  sat  with  his  mouth  open, 
staring  up  in  the  captain's  face,  and  mute  with 
eagerness  to  hear  the  story  he  had  to  tell.  The 
father  and  uncle,  too,  said  not  a  word,  for  they 
were  loth  to  weaken  the  impression  that  the  cap 
tain's  simple  narrative  was  evidently  making  on 
the  sea-crazed  boy. 

"  Ay,  ay,  mother,"  Captain  Holmes  proceeded, 
"  it  is  terrible,  I  can  assure  you,  to  rush  on  deck 
in  the  darkness  of  night,  when  even  your  half- 
wakened  senses  tell  you  that  there  is  nothing  but 
a  boundless  watery  desert  round  about  the  ship, 
and  to  find  the  canvas  beating  furiously  against 
the  masts,  as  the  sails  are  put  suddenly  aback  to 
check  the  way  upon  the  vessel.  Then,  as  you  fly 
instinctively  to  the  ship's  side,  you  see,  perhaps, 
some  poor  fellow  struggling  with  the  black  waves, 
and,  strange  to  say,  apparently  swimming  as  hard 
as  he  can  away  from  the  vessel  itself  before  it  is 
well  brought  to,  for  one  forgets,  at  the  moment, 
you  see,  the  motion  of  the  ship ;  and  so,  as  it 
dashes  past  the  wretched  man  in  the  water,  it 
seems  as  if  he,  in  the  madness  of  his  fright,  was 


68  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    PKANKLIN. 

hurrying  away  from  the  hull  rather  than  the  hull 
from  him.  '  Who  is  it  ?  who  is  it  ?'  cry  a  score 
of  voices  at  once.  '  Tisdale,'  answers  one.  '  No, 
no,  it's  Swinton,'  says  another.  '  I  tell  you  it's 
Markham,'  shouts  a  third  ;  c  he  fell  from  the  main 
chains  as  he  was  drawing  a  bucket  of  water ;' 
and  while  this  goes  on,  some  one,  more  thought 
ful  than  the  rest,  runs  to  the  starn  and  cuts  adrift 
the  life  buoy  that  is  always  kept  hanging  there 
over  the  taffrel.  Then,  as  the  buoy  strikes  the 
water,  the  blue  light  that  is  attached  to  it  takes 
fire,  and  the  black  mass  of  waves  is  lighted  up 
for  yards  round  with  a  pale  phosphoric  glow. 
But  scarcely  has  this  been  done  before  some  half 
dozen  brave  fellows  have  rushed  to  the  davits,  and 
jumping  into  the  cutter  over  the  ship's  quarter, 
lowered  the  boat,  with  themselves  in  it,  down 
into  the  sea.  The  next  minute  the  oars  are  heard 
in  the  silence  of  the  night  to  rattle  quickly  in  the 
rullocks,  while  the  cox'ain  cries  aloud y'  Give  way, 
boys,  give  way !'  and  the  hazy  figure  of  the  re 
ceding  boat  is  seen  to  glide  like  a  shadow  toward 
the  now  distant  light  of  the  life  buoy  dancing  on 
the  water.  Then  how  the  sailors  crowd  about 
the  gangway,  and  cluster  on  the  poop,  peering 
into  the  darkness,  which  looks  doubly  dark  from 
the  very  anxiety  of  the  gazers  to  see  farther  into 
it.  The  sight  of  the  sea,  Ben,  miles  away  from 
land  on  a  starless  night,  is  always  terrible  enough, 
for  then  the  dark  ring  of  water  encompassing  the 
lonely  vessel  looks  like  a  vast  black  pool,  and  the 
sky,  with  its  dull  dome  of  clouds,  like  a  huge 
overhanging  vault  of  lead.  But  when  you  know, 
lad,  that  one  of  your  own  shipmates  is  adrift  in 
that  black  pool — where  there  is  not  even  so  much 
as  a  rock,  remember,  to  cling  to — and  battling 
for  very  life  with  the  great  waste  of  waters  round 
about  him,  why,  even  the  roughest  sailor's  bosom 


A  TALK    ABOUT  THE    SEA.  69 

is  touched  with  a  pity  that  makes  the  eyes  smart 
again  with  something  like  a  tear.  You  may  fan 
cy,  then,  how  the  seamen  watch  the  white  boat, 
as  it  keeps  searching  about  in  the  pale  'light  of 
the  distant  buoy,  and  how  the  crowd  at  the  ship's 
side  cry  first,  4  Now  they  see  him  yonder ;'  and 
next,  as  the  cutter  glides  away  in  another  direc 
tion,  '  No,  they're  on  the  wrong  track  yet,  lads ;' 
and  then  how  the  men  on  board  discuss  whether 
the  poor  fellow  could  swim  or  not,  and  how  long 
he  could  keep  up  in  the  water;  until  at  length 
the  buoy-light  fades,  and  even  the  figure  of  the 
cutter  itself  suddenly  vanishes  from  the  view. 
Nothing  then  remains  but  to  listen  in  terrible 
suspense  for  the  pulse  of  the  returning  oars ;  and 
as  the  throbbing  of  the  strokes  is  heard  along  the 
water,  every  heart  beats  with  eagerness  to  learn 
the  result.  '  What  cheer,  boys,  what  cheer  ?'  cries 
the  officer,  as  the  boat's  crew  draw  up  alongside 
the  vessel  once  more,  and  every  neck  is  craned 
over  the  side  to  see  whether  the  poor  fellow  lies 
stretched  at  the  bottom  of  the  cutter.  And  when 
the  ugly  news  is  told  that  the  body  even  has  not 
been  found  (for  that  is  the  usual  fate  in  the  dark), 
you  can  form,  perhaps,  some  faint  idea,  Ben,  of 
the  gloom  that  comes  over  the  whole  crew. 
'  Whose  turn  is  it  to  be  next — who  is  to  be  left 
like  that  poor  fellow  fighting  with  the  ocean  in 
the  dark?  What  became  of  him?  is  he  still 
clinging  to  the  spar  that  was  thrown  to  him, 
struggling  and  shrieking  to  the  ship  as  he  sees 
the  cabin  lights  sailing  from  his  sight?  or  was 
he  seized  by  some  shark  lurking  in  the  ship's 
wake,  and  dragged  under  as  soon  as  he  struck 
the  waves  ?  Who  can  say  ?  And  the  very  mys 
tery  gives  a  greater  terror  to  such  an  end." 
^  "  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  lost  one's  soul," 
sighed  Benjamin's  mother,  as  she  hugged  her  boy 


70  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

close  to  her  knees,  grateful  even  to  thanksgiving 
that  he  had  escaped  so  ghastly  a  doom.  As  for 
Ben  himself,  his  eyes  were  glazed  with  tears,  and 
as  he  still  looked  up  in  the  captain's  face,  the  big 
drops  kept  rolling  over  his  long  lashes  till  his 
little  waistcoat  was  dappled  with  the  stains. 

The  good-natured  captain  did  not  fail  to  note 
how  deeply  the  lad  had  been  touched  with  the 
story,  and  jerking  his  head  on  one  side  toward 
the  boy,  so  as  to  draw  the  father's  attention  to 
the  youngster,  he  indulged  in  one  of  his  habitual 
chuckles  as  he  said,  "  Come,  come,  Ben,  swab  the 
decks.  You  haven't  heard  half  of  the  perils  of 
a  sailor's  life  yet.  Ah!  you  lads  think  a  long 
voyage  at  sea  is  as  pleasant  as  a  half  hour's  cruise 
in  the  summer  time ;  so  I  did  once ;  but  a  few 
weeks  in  the  middle  of  the  ocean,  where  even  the 
sight  of  a  gull,  or  a  brood  of  Mother  Carey's 
chickens  seems  a  perfect  Godsend  in  the  intense 
solitude  of  the  great  desert  about  you,  and  where 
the  same  everlasting  ring  of  the  horizon  still  pur 
sues  you  day  after  day,  till  the  sense  of  the  dis 
tance  you  have  to  travel  positively  appals  the 
mind — a  few  weeks  of  such  a  life  as  this,  lad,  is 
sufficient  to  make  the  most  stubborn  heart  turn 
back  to  home  and  friends,  and  to  pray  God  in 
the  dead  of  the  night,  when  there  is  nothing  but 
the  same  glistening  cloud  of  stars  set  in  the  same 
eternal  forms  to  keep  one  company,  that  he  may 
be  spared  to  clasp  all  those  he  loves  to  his  bosom 
once  again.  You  think  a  sailor,  youngster,  a 
thoughtless  dare-devil  of  a  fellow,  with  hardly  a 
tender  spot  to  his  nature — the  world  speaks  of 
his  heart  as  a  bit  of  oak ;  but  I  can  tell  you,  boy, 
if  you  could  hear  the  yarns  that  are  spun  during 
the  dog-watches  on  the  fo'cas'l,  there  is  hardly  a 
tale  told  that  isn't  homeward  bound,  as  we  say, 
and  made  up  of  the  green  scenes  of  life  rather 


A   TALK    ABOUT   THE    SEA.  71 

than  the  ugly  perils  at  sea.  Ay !  and  what's  more, 
Ben,  if  we  could  but  know  the  silent  thoughts  of 
every  heart  on  deck  during  the  stillness  of  the 
middle  watch,  I'd  wager  there  is  not  one  among 
them  that  isn't  away  with  mother,  sister,  or  sweet 
heart,  prattling  all  kinds  of  fond  and  loving  things 
to  them.  Your  father  Josiah,  too,  would  tell  you 
that  sailors  are  a  godless,  blaspheming  race ;  but 
I  can  tell  you,  lad,  better  than  he  (for  I  know 
them  better),  that  a  seaman,  surrounded  as  he 
always  is  with  the  very  sublimity  of  creation — 
with  the  great  world  of  water  by  day,  which 
seems  as  infinite  and  incomprehensible  as  space 
itself,  and  with  the  lustrous  multitude  of  stars  by 
nig}^ — the  stars,  that  to  a  sailor  are  like  heaven's 
own  beacon-lights  set  up  on  the  vast  eternal  shore 
of  the  universe,  as  if  for  the  sole  purpose  of  guid 
ing  his  ship  along  a  path  where  the  faintest  track 
of  any  previous  traveler  is  impossible — the  sailor, 
I  say,  amid  such  scenes  as  these,  dwells  under  the 
very  temple  of  the  Godhead  himself,  and  shows 
in  the  unconquerable  superstition  of  his  nature — 
despite  his  idle  and  unmeaning  oaths — how  deep 
ly  he  feels  that  every  minute  of  his  perilous  life 
is  vouchsafed  him,  as  it  were,  through  the  mercy 
of  the  All-merciful." 

The  pious  brothers  bent  their  heads  in  rever 
ence  at  the  thoughts,  while  the  mother  looked  ten 
derly  and  touchingly  toward  her  son-in-law,  and 
smiled  as  if  to  tell  him  how  pleased  she  was  to 
find  that  even  he,  sailor  as  he  was,  had  not  forgot 
ten  the  godly  teaching  of  his  Puritan  parents. 

For  a  moment  or  two  there  was  a  marked  si 
lence  among  the  family.  The  captain  had  touch 
ed  the  most  solemn  chord  of  all  in  their  heart, 
and  they  sat  for  a  while  rapt  in  the  sacred  reverie 
that  filled  their  mind  like  the  deep-toned  vibra 
tion  of  "  a  passing  bell." 


72  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

Presently  Captain  Holmes,  who  was  unwilling 
to  leave  his  brother  Ben  without  fairly  rooting 
out  every  thread  of  the  romance  that  bound  the 
little  fellow  to  the  sea,  proceeded  once  more  with 
his  narrative. 

"  But  I'll  tell  you  what,  Master  Ben,  is  the  most 
shocking  sight  of  all  that  a  sailor  has  to  witness, 
ay,  and  one  that  makes  a  stark  coward  of  the 
bravest,  and  a  thoughtful  man  of  the  most  thought 
less — death,  youngster  ! — death,  where  there  are 
no  church-yards  to  store  the  body  in,  and  no 
tomb-stones  to  record  even  the  name  of  the  de 
parted  ;  death,  amid  scenes  where  there  is  an  ev 
erlasting  craving  for  home,  and  yet  no  home-face 
near  to  soothe  the  last  mortal  throes  of  the  suf 
ferer.  Why,  lad,  I've  seen  a  stout,  stalwart  fel 
low  leave  the  deck  in  the  very  flush  of  life  and 
health,  as  I  came  on  duty  at  the  watch  after  his, 
and  when  I've  gone  below  again,  some  few  hours 
afterward,  I  have  found  him  stricken  down  by  a 
sun-stroke  as  suddenly  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  and 
the  sailmaker  sitting  by  his  berth,  and  busy  sew 
ing  the  corpse  up  in  his  hammock,  with  a  cannon 
ball  at  the  feet.  The  first  death  I  had  ever  wit 
nessed,  lad,  was  under  such  circumstances  as 
these.  I  was  a  mere  youngster,  like  yourself,  at 
the  time,  and  had  been  by  the  man's  side  day  aft 
er  day  —  had  listened  to  his  yarns  night  after 
night — had  heard  him  talk,  with  a  hitch  in  his 
breath,  about  the  wife  and  little  baby-boy  he  had 
left  behind  —  had  seen  her  name  (ay,  and  some 
half  a  dozen  others),  with  hearts  and  love-knots 
under  them,  pricked  in  blue  on  his  great  brawny 
arms.  I  had  known  him,  indeed,  as  closely  as 
men  locked  within  the  same  walls  for  months  to 
gether,  and  suffering  the  same  common  danger, 
get  to  know  and  like  one  another.  I  had  missed 
sight  of  his  face  for  but  a  few  hours,  and  wb^n  I 


A   TALK   ABOUT   THE    SEA.  73 

saw  it  next  the  eye  was  fixed  and  glazed,  the 
features  as  if  cut  in  stone,  the  hand  heavy  and 
cold  as  lead  ;  and  I  felt  that,  boy  as  I  was,  I  had 
looked  for  the  first  time  deep  down  into  the  great 
unfathomable  sea  of  our  common  being.  The 
hardest  thing  of  all,  lad,  is  to  believe  in  death ; 
and  when  we  have  been  face  to  face  with  a  man 
day  by  day,  there  seems  to  be  such  a  huge  gap 
left  in  the  world  when  he  is  gone,  that  the  mind 
grows  utterly  skeptical,  and  can  hardly  be  con 
vinced  that  an  existence,  which  has  been  to  it  the 
most  real  and  even  palpable  thing  in  all  the  world, 
can  have  wholly  passed  away.  To  look  into  the 
same  eyes,  and  find  them  return  no  glance  for 
glance ;  to  speak,  and  find  the  ear  deaf,  the  lips 
sealed,  and  the  voice  hushed,  is  so  incomprehen 
sible  a  change  that  the  judgment  positively  reels 
again  under  the  blow.  Ashore,  lad,  you  can  get 
away  from  death — you  can  shut  it  out  with  other 
scenes — but  on  board  ship  it  haunts  you  like  a 
spectre ;  and  then  the  day  after  comes  the  most 
dreadful  scene  of  all — burial  on  the  high  seas" 

The  captain  remained  silent  for  a  moment  or 
two,  so  that  Ben  might  be  able  to  "  chew  the  cud" 
of  his  thoughts.  Holmes  had  noticed  the  little 
fellow's  head  drop  at  the  mention  of  the  death  at 
sea,  and  he  was  anxious  that  the  lad  should  realize 
to  himself  all  the  horror  of  such  a  catastrophe. 

Presently  Captain  Holmes  began  again :  "  As 
the  bell  tolls,  the  poor  fellow's  shipmates  come 
streaming  up  the  hatchways,  with  their  heads 
bare  and  their  necks  bent  down  ;  for  few  can  bear 
to  look  upon  the  lifeless  body  of  their  former  com 
panion,  stretched,  as  it  is,  on  the  hatches  beside 
the  ship's  gangway,  pointing  to  its  last  home — 
the  sea ;  while  the  ship's  colors,  with  which  it  is 
covered,  scarcely  serve  to  conceal  the  outline  of 
the  mummy-like  form  stitched  in  the  hammock 


74  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

underneath.  It  needs  no  elocution,  Ben,  to  make 
the  service  for  the  dead  at  sea  the  most  solemn 
and  impressive  of  all  prayers — an  outpouring  that 
causes  the  heart  to  grieve  and  the  soul  to  shud 
der  again  in  the  very  depth  of  its  emotion ;  for, 
with  the  great  ocean  itself  for  a  cathedral,  and  the 
wild  winds  of  heaven  to  chant  the  funeral  dirge, 
there  is  an  awe  created  that  can  not  possibly  be 
summoned  up  by  any  human  handiwork.  And 
when  the  touching  words  are  uttered  of i  ashes  to 
ashes,  and  dust  to  dust,'  and  the  body  is  slid  from 
under  the  colors  into  the  very  midst  of  the  ocean 
— as  if  it  were  being  cast  back  into  the  great 
womb  of  Nature  itself— a  horror  falls  upon  the 
senses  like  a  deep  absorbing  stupor." 

Another  long  pause  ensued.  The  captain  him 
self  was  absorbed  in  recalling  all  the  sad  associ 
ations  of  the  scenes  he  had  described.  Josiah 
arid  Uncle  Benjamin  had  long  forgotten  the  little 
lad  whose  love  of  the  sea  had  been  the  cause  of 
the  discourse,  and  were  silently  nursing  the  pious 
thoughts  that  had  been  called  up  in  their  minds, 
while  poor  Mrs.  Franklin  sat  sobbing  and  mutter 
ing  to  herself  disjointed  fragments  of  prayers. 

Presently  the  mother  rose  from  her  seat,  and, 
flinging  herself  on  the  captain's  shoulder,  wept 
half  hysterically ;  at  last,  with  a  strong  effort,  she 
cried  through  her  sobs,  "  The  Lord  in  heaven  re 
ward  you,  Holmes,  for  saving  my  boy  from  such 
a  fate." 

Next  Uncle  Benjamin  started  from  his  chair, 
and,  going  toward  his  little  namesake,  said,  as  he 
led  him  to  his  weeping  parent,  "  Come,  dear  lad, 
promise  your  mother  here  you  will  abandon  all 
thoughts  of  the  sea  from  this  day  forth." 

"  I  do,  mother,"  cried  the  boy ;  "  I  promise  you 
I  will." 

The  mother's  heart  was  too  full  to  thank  her 


A   TALK    ABOUT   THE    SEA.  75 

•» 

boy  by  words ;  but  she  seized  him,  and,  throwing 
her  arms  about  his  neck,  half  smothered  him  with 
kisses,  that  spoke  her  gratitude  to  her  son  in  the 
most  touching  and  unmistakable  of  all  language. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  sir,"  said  Josiah  to  little 
Benjamin;  "let  us  be  better  friends  than  we  yet 
have  been,  and  to-morrow  you  shall  choose  a  trade 
for  yourself." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  father,  thank  you,"  exclaimed 
the  delighted  lad ;  and  that  night  he  told  his  joys 
to  his  Guinea-pig,  and  slept  as  he  had  never  done 
before. 


END    OF    PART   I. 


PAET   II. 

YOUNG   BEN'S   LESSON   IN   LIFE,  AND   WHAT   HE 
LEABNED   FROM   IT. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

GOING   OUT   IN   THE   WORLD. 

IT  was  arranged  by  Josiah  and  his  wife,  after 
parting  with  the  captain  overnight,  that  young 
Benjamin  should  be  intrusted  to  the  care  of  his 
uncle  for  a  few  days  before  being  called  upon  to 
select  hi?  future  occupation  in  life. 

Uncle  Benjamin  had  pointed  out  to  the  father 
that  he  was  too  prone  to  look  upon  his  boy  as  a 
mere  industrial  machine,  and  had  begged  hard  to 
be  allowed  to  take  his  little  godson  with  him 
"  out  in  the  world"  for  a  while,  so  as  to  give  him 
some  slight  insight  into  the  economy  of  human 
life  and  labor. 

"The  lad  at  present,"  urged  the  uncle,  "is 
without  purpose  or  object.  He  knows  absolute 
ly  nothing  of  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  has  no 
more  sense  of  the  necessity  or  nobility  of  work, 
nor,  indeed,  any  clearer  notion  of  the  great 
scheme  of  civilized  society,  than  an  Indian  pa 
poose.  What  can  a  child  like  him,"  the  godfa 
ther  said,  "understand  of  the  value  of  prudence, 
of  the  overwhelming  power  of  mere  perseverance, 
or  of  the  magic  influence  of  simple  energy  and 
will,  till  he  is  made  to  see  and  comprehend  the 
different  springs  and  movements  that  give  force, 


GOING    OUT    IN   THE    WORLD.  TT 

play,  and  direction  to  .the  vast  machinery  of  indus 
try  and  commerce  ?  So  far  as  the  great  world  of 
human  enterprise  is  concerned,"  added  the  uncle, 
"  the  lad  is  but  little  better  than  a  pup  of  eight 
days  old ;  and,  until  his  mind's  eye  is  fairly  open 
ed,  it  is  idle  to  expect  him  to  have  the  least  in 
sight  into  the  higher  uses  and  duties  of  life." 

As  soon  as  the  morning  meal  of  the  next  day 
was  finished,  little  Benjamin,  to  his  utter  aston 
ishment,  was  presented  by  his  uncle  with  a  new 
fishing-rod  and  tackle,  and  told  to  get  himself 
ready  to  start  directly  for  a  day's  sport. 

"What  ever  can  this  have  to  do  with  the  choice 
of  a  trade?"  thought  the  boy  to  himself. 

There  was  no  time,  however,  for  wondering ; 
for  the  next  minute  the  mother  was  busy  brush 
ing  his  little  triangular  hat,  while  his  sister  was 
helping  him  on  with  his  thick,  big-buckled  shoes. 
Then  a  packet  of  corned  beef  and  bread  was 
slipped  into  the  pocket  of  his  broad-skirted  coat, 
and  without  a  hint  as  to  what  it  all  meant,  the 
little  fellow  was  dismissed  with  a  kiss  and  a 
"  God-speed"  upon  his  mysterious  journey. 

The  boy  and  his  uncle  were  not  long  in  trav 
ersing  the  crooked  and  narrow  streets  of  Boston. 
The  quaint,  old-fashioned  State  House  in  front  of 
the  large,  park-like  "  common"  was  soon  left  be 
hind,  and  the  long  wooden  bridge  crossed  in  the 
direction  of  the  neighboring  suburb  of  Dorchester. 

Young  Benjamin,  though  pleased  enough  to  be 
free  for  a  day's  pleasure,  was  so  eager  to  be  put 
to  some  new  occupation,  that  he  kept  speculating 
in  his  own  simple  manner,  as  he  trotted  along 
with  his  rod  on  his  shoulder,  as  to  why  his  father 
had  broken  his  promise  with  him. 

The  uncle  guessed  the  reason  of  his  little 
nephew's  silence,  but  said  not  a  word  as  to  the 


TS  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

real  object  of  the  excursion ;  and  as  they  made 
toward  the  heights  of  Dorchester,  he  recounted 
to  the  lad,  in  order  to  divert  his  thoughts,  stories 
of  the  persecutions  of  the  Franklin  family  in  the 
old  country ;  till  at  length,  having  reached  a  small 
streamlet  at  the  foot  of  the  heights  themselves,  the 
rod  and  line  were  duly  mounted,  and  the  day's 
sport  commenced. 

Then,  as  the  boy  sat  on  the  green  bank,  with  his 
fishing-rod  speared  into  the  ground,  and  watching 
the  tiny  float  that  kept  dancing  like  a  straw  in  the 
current,  the  old  man  at  his  side  took  advantage 
of  the  quietude  of  the  spot  to  impress  his  little 
nephew  with  his  first  views  of  life. 

It  was  a  lovely  autumn  day.  The  blue  vault 
of  the  sky  was  like  a  huge  dome  of  air  upspring- 
ing  from  the  distant  horizon,  and  flecked  with 
large  cumulus  clouds  that  lay  almost  as  motion 
less,  from  lack  of  wind,  as  if  they  were  mounds 
of  the  whitest  and  softest  snow  piled  one  above 
another.  From  an  opening  between  two  such 
clouds  the  sun's  rays  came  pouring  down  visibly, 
in  distinct  broad  bands  of  "  fire-mist" — such  as 
are  seen  streaming  through  a  cathedral  window 
— and  fell  upon  the  earth  and  water  in  large 
sheets  of  dazzling  phosphorescence.  Out  at  sea, 
the  broad  ocean-expanse  constituting  the  Bay  of 
Massachusetts  looked  positively  solid  as  crystal 
in  its  calmness,  while  the  shadows  of  the  clouds 
above,  dulling  in  parts  the  bright  surface  of  the 
water,  swept  over  it  almost  as  imperceptibly  as 
breath  upon  a  mirror.  In  the  distance,  the  little 
smacks  that  seemed  to  be  reveling  in  the  breeze 
far  away  from  land  had  each  left  "behind  them  a 
bright  trail,  Avhich  looked  like  a  long  shining  scar 
upon  the  water ;  and  from  the  scores  of  islands 
dappling  the  great  ocean-lake,  ferry-boats,  freight 
ed  with  a  many-colored  load  of  market-women, 


GOING    OUT   IN   THE    WOULD.  79 

peasants,  and  soldiers,  kept  plying  to  and  from 
the  shore. 

Looking  toward  the  home  they  had  left,  the 
town  of  Boston  itself  was  seen  crowding  the 
broad  peninsular  pedestal  on  which  it  was  set, 
and  the  three  hills  that  gave  it  its  ancient  name 
of  "  Tri-mountain"  swelling  high  above  the  tide 
at  its  base.  In  front  of  the  city,  the  masts  of  the 
many  vessels  in  the  harbor  were  like  a  mass  of 
reeds  springing  out  of  the  water,  and  from  the 
back  and  sides  of  the  town  there  stretched  long 
wrooden  bridges,  which  in  the  distance  seemed  as 
though  they  were  so  many  cables  mooring  the 
huge  raft  of  the  city  to  the  adjacent  continent. 

The  country  round  about  was  dappled  with 
many  a  white  and  cosy  homestead,  and  the  earth 
itself  variegated  as  a  painter's  palette  with  all 
the  autumn  colors  of  the  green  meadows  and  the 
brown  fallow  lands — the  golden  orchards,  the 
crimson  patches  of  clover,  and  the  white  flocks 
and  red  cattle  with  which  it  was  studded ;  while 
overhead,  on  the  neighboring  Dorchester  heights, 
there  rose  a  fine  cloud  of  foliage  that  was  as  rich 
and  yet  sombre  in  its  many  tints  as  the  sky  at 
sunset  after  a  storm. 

"  Look  round  about  you,  lad,"  said  Uncle  Ben 
jamin  to  the  youth  at  his  side,  "  and  see  what  a 
busy  scene  surrounds  us.  There  is  not  a  field 
within  compass  of  the  eye  that  the  husbandmen 
are  not  at  work  in.  Yonder  the  plow  goes  scor 
ing  the  earth,  as  the  yoke  of  oxen  passes  slowly 
over  it,  and  changing  the  green  soil  into  a  rich 
umber  brown,  so  that  the  exhausted  ground  may 
drink  in  fresh  life  from  the  air  above.  Here  the 
farm-cart  is  in  the  field,  studding  it  with  loads  of 
manure  at  regular  distances,  to  serve  as  nutriment 
for  the  future  grain.  The  smoke  from  the  up 
rooted  heaps  of  stubble  burning  yonder  goes  drift- 


80  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

ing  over  the  dark  plain,  iu  order  that  even  the 
ashes  from  the  past  crop  may  tend  to  feed  the 
coming  one.  That  swarthy-looking  fellow  you 
see  over  there,  Ben,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm,  is 
a  sweep  sowing  soot  broadcast  for  the  same  pur 
pose.  Down  by  the  shore,  again,  the  people  are 
out  writh  their  wagons  collecting  sea-weed  with  a 
like  object.  At  the  salt-marshes,  too,  you  per 
ceive  the  cowherd  is  busy  opening  the  sluices,  so 
that  the  tide,  as  it  flows,  may  moisten  the  rich 
meadows  upon  which  the  cattle  are  grazing. 

"  On  the  other  hand,"  continued  the  old  man, 
as  he  pointed  to  the  several  objects  about  him, 
"  the  tiny  vessels  yonder,  that  look  like  so  many 
white  gulls  as  they  skim  the  broad  bay,  are  those 
of  the  fishermen  gathering  supplies  for  to-mor 
row's  market.  That  noble-looking  Indiaman,  with 
the  men,  like  a  swarm  of  bees  about  its  yards, 

fathering  in  the  pouting  sails  as  it  enters  the 
arbor,  is  laden  with  teas  and  spices  from  the 
East;  and  that  line  of  craft  moored  beside  the 
'  Long  wharf,'  with  the  cranes  dipping  into  their 
holds,  is  landing  bags  of  sugar  from  the  Western 
Indies.  The  drove  of  cattle"  halting  there  to  drink 
at  the  road-side  pool,  and  with  their  reflected  im 
ages  coloring  the  water  like  a  painting,  have  come 
from  the  distant  prairies  to  swell  our  butchers' 
stores.  The  white  figure  you  can  just  see  at  the 
top  of  yon  mill  is  that  of  the  miller's  man,  guiding 
the  dangling  sacks  of  flour  on  their  way  down  to 
be  carted  on0  to  the  city.  The  very  birds  of  the 
air — the  crows  now  cawing  as  they  fly  over  head ; 
the  swallows  twittering  as  they  skim  zigzag  across 
the  surface  of  the  pools ;  the  white  gull  yonder, 
that  has  just  settled  down  on  the  waves ;  the 
hawk  poised  above  the  wood  waiting  for  the 
coming  pigeon — are  one  and  all  in  quest  of  food. 
Even  the  very  insects  beside  us  are  busy  upon 


GOING    OUT    IN   THE   WORLD.  81 

the  same  errand.  The  big  bee  buzzing  in  the 
flower-cup  at  our  feet ;  the  tiny  ants,  that  are 
hardly  bigger  than  motes  in  the  sunbeam,  hurry 
ing  to  and  fro  in  the  grass ;  the  spider,  that  has 
spun  his  silken  net  across  the  twigs  of  the  adja 
cent  hedge,  are  all  quickened  with  the  cravings  of 
their  bigger  fellow-creatures.  Indeed,  the  sports 
man  on  the  hills  above,  whose  gun  now  makes  the 
woods  chatter  again,  is  there  only  from  the  same 
motive  as  is  stirring  the  insects  themselves.  And 
you  yourself,  Ben — but  look  at  your  float,  lad ! 
look  at  your  float !  The  bobbing  of  it  tells  you 
that  the  very  fish,  like  the  birds  and  the  insects, 
the  sportsmen  and  the  husbandmen  round  about, 
have  left  their  lurking-places  on  the  same  hungry 
mission.  Strike,  boy,  strike  I" 

As  the  uncle  said  the  words,  the  delighted 
youngster  seized  the  rod,  and  twitched  a  plump- 
looking  chub,  struggling,  from  the  pool. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  prize  was  stored  away  in 
the  fish-basket  they  had  brought  with  them,  and 
the  float  once  more  dancing  in  the  shade  above 
the  newly-baited  hook  in  the  water. 

And  when  the  rod  was  speared  anew  in  the 
ground  beside  the  brook,  Uncle  Ben  said  to  his 
nephew,  as  the  little  fellow  flung  himself  down  on 
the  bank  slope,  "  Can  you  understand  now,  my 
little  man,  why  I  brought  you  out  to  fish  ?" 

The  lad  looked  up  in  his  uncle's  good-humored 
face,  and  smiled  as  the  solution  of  the  morning's 
riddle  flashed  across  his  mind. 

"  Why,  to  teach  me,  uncle,  that  every  thing  that 
lives  seeks  after  its  food,"  answered  the  younger 
Benjamin,  delighted  with  the  small  discovery  he 
had  made ;  for  as  yet  he  had  never  shaped  in  his 
mind  the  cravings  of  creatures  into  any  thing  ap 
proximating  to  a  general  law. 

"  Hardly  that,  my  little  man,"  replied  the  uncle, 
F 


82  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    F-EANKLIN". 

"for  I  should  have  thought  your  own  unguided 
reason  would  have  shown  you  as  much  ere  this. 
"What  I  really  want  to  impress  upon  you,  Ben,  is 
rather  the  vital  necessity  for  work.  The  lesson  I 
wish  to  teach  you  is  not  a  very  deep  one,  my  lad, 
but  one  that  requires  to  be  firmly  and  everlasting 
ly  engraven  on  the  mind.  Now  look  round  again, 
and  see  what  difference  you  can  notice  between 
the  lives  of  animals  and  plants.  Observe  what  is 
going  on  in  the  fields,  and  what  among  the  in 
sects,  the  birds,  the  fishes,  the  beasts,  and  even 
the  men,  that  throng  the  land,  the  air,  and  the 
water  about  us." 

The  boy  cast  his  eyes  once  more  over  the  broad 
expanse  of  nature  before  him,  and  said,  hesita 
tingly,  "  The  animals  are  all  seeking  after  food, 
and — and — " 

"  The  husbandmen  are  busy  in  the  fields,  taking 
food  to  the  plants,"  added  Uncle  Benjamin,  help 
ing  the  little  fellow  to  work  out  the  problem. 

"  The  one  form  of  life  goes  after  its  food,  and 
the  other  has  it  brought  to  it." 

The  old  man  paused  for  a  minute,  so  that  the 
lad  might  well  digest  the  difference. 

"  The  distinctive  quality  of  an  animal,"  he  then 
went  on,  "is  that  it  seeks  its  own  living, whereas 
a  plant  must  have  its  living  taken  to  it." 

"I  see,"  said  Benjamin,  thoughtfully. 

"  An  animal,"  said  the  uncle,  "  can  not  thrust 
its  lower  extremities  into  the  ground,  and  drink 
up  the  elements  of  its  trunk  and  limbs  from  the 
soil,  like  the  willow-tree  there  on  the  opposite 
bank,  whose  roots  you  can  see,  like  a  knot  of  writh 
ing  snakes,  piercing  the  earth  all  round  about  it. 
Unlike  the  tree  and  the  shrub,  Ben,  the  animal  is 
endowed  with  a  susceptibility  of  feeling,  as  well 
as  fitted  with  a  special  and  exquisitely  beautiful 
apparatus  for  motion.  The  sentient  creature  is 


GOING    OUT   IN   THE   WOKLD.  83 

thus  not  only  gifted  with  a  sense  of  hunger  to  tell 
him  instinctively  (far  better  than  any  reason  could 
possibly  do)  when  his  body  needs  refreshment, 
but,  in  order  to  prevent  his  sitting  still  and  starve 
ing  with  pleasure  (as  he  assuredly  would  have, 
done  if  hunger  had  been  rendered  a  delight  to 
him),  this  very  sense  of  hunger  has,  most  benev 
olently,  been  made  painful  for  him  to  suffer  for  any 
length  of  time.  Now  it  is  the  pain  or  uneasiness 
of  the  growing  appetite  that  serves  to  sting  the 
muscles  of  his  limbs  into  action  at  frequent  and 
regular  intervals,  and  to  make  him  stir  in  quest 
of  the  food  that  is  necessary  for  the  reparation  of 
his  frame ;  and,  what  is  more,  the  allaying  of  the 
pain  of  the  protracted  appetite  itself  has  been  ren 
dered  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  of  animal  nature." 

"How  strange  it  seems,  uncle,  that  I  never 
thought  of  this  before  ;  for,  now  you  point  it  out 
to  me,  it  is  all  so  plain  that  I  fancy  I  must  have 
been  blind  not  to  have  noticed  it,"  was  all  that 
the  nephew  could  say,  for  the  new  train  of  thought 
started  in  his  brain  was  hurrying  him  away  with 
its  wild  crowd  of  reflections. 

"Rather  it  would  have  been  much  stranger, 
Ben,  could  you  have  discovered  it  alone ;  for  such 
matters  are  visible  to  the  mind  only,  and  not  to 
be  noted  by  the  mere  eyes  themselves,"  the  uncle 
made  answer. 

"  I  understand  now,"  exclaimed  the  boy,  half 
musing ;  "  all  animals  must  stir  themselves  in  or 
der  to  get  food." 

"  Ay,  my  lad ;  but  there  is  another  marked  dif 
ference  between  animals  and  plants,"  continued 
the  uncle,  "  and  that  will  explain  to  us  why  even 
food  itself  is  necessary  for  animal  subsistence.  A 
tree,  you  know,  boy,  is  inactive  —  that  willow 
would  remain  where  it  is  till  it  died  unless  moved 
by  some  one — and  there  is,  therefore,  little  or  no 


84  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

waste  going  on  in  its  frame ;  hence  the  greater 
part  of  the  nutriment  it  derives  from  the  soil  and 
air  is  devoted  to  the  growth  or  strengthening  of 
its  trunk  and  limbs.  But  the  chief  condition  of 
animal  life  is  muscular  action,  and  muscular  action 
can  not  go  on  without  the  destruction  ^of  the  tis 
sues  themselves.  After  a  hard  day's  exercise,  men 
are  known  to  become  considerably  lighter,  or,  in 
other  words,  to  have  lost  several  pounds'  weight 
of  their  bodily  substance.  Physicians,  too,  assure 
us  that  the  entire  body  itself  becomes  changed 
every  seven  years  throughout  life :  the  hair,  for 
instance,  is  forever  growing,  the  nails  are  being 
continually  pared  away,  the  breath  is  always  car 
rying  off  a  certain  portion  of  our  bulk,  the  blood 
is  hourly  depositing  fresh  fibre  and  absorbing  de 
cayed  tissues  as  it  travels  through  the  system; 
transpiration,  again,  is  forever  going  on,  and  can 
only  be  maintained  by  continual  drains  upon  the 
vital  fluids  within.  Even  if  we  sit  still,  our  body 
is  at  work — the  heart  beating,  the  lungs  playing, 
the  chest  heaving,  the  blood  circulating ;  and  all 
this,  as  with  the  motion  of  any  other  engine  (even 
though  it  be  of  iron),  must  be  attended  with  more 
or  less  friction  or  rubbing  away  of  the  parts  in 
motion,  and  consequently  with  a  slower  or  quick 
er  wearing  out  or  waste  of  the  body  itself." 

"  I  should  never  have  thought  of  that,  uncle," 
observed  the  youth. 

"  It  is  this  waste,  lad,  which,  waking  or  sleep 
ing,  moving  or  resting,  is  forever  going  on  in  the 
animal  frame,  that  makes  a  continual  supply  of 
food  a  vital  necessity  with  us  all.  Food,  indeed, 
is  to  the  human  machine  what  coals  are  to  Savery's 
wonderful  steam-engine — the  fuel  that  is  neces 
sary  to  keep  the  apparatus  in  motion ;  and,  as  a 
chaldron  of  coal  applied  to  a  steam  boiler  will  do 
only  a  certain  amount  of  work,  so  a  given  quanti- 


GOING    OUT   IN   THE   WORLD.  85 

ty  of  bread  and  bacon  put  into  a  man's  stomach 
is  equal  to  merely  a  definite  quantity  of  labor. 
But,  since  we  can  only  get  food  by  working,  why 
work  itself,  of  course,  becomes  the  supreme  neces 
sity  of  our  lives.  Our  blood,  our  heart,  our  lungs 
are,  as  I  said,  forever  at  work,  and  we  must  there 
fore  work,  if  it  be  only  to  keep  them  working.  It 
is  impossible  for  such  as  us  to  stand  still  without 
destroying  some  portion  of  our  substance,  and 
hence  one  of  three  things  becomes  inevitable." 

"  And  what  are  they,  uncle  ?" 

"  Why,  work,  beggary,  or  death !"  was  the 
overwhelming  reply.  "  You  may  choose  which 
of  the  three  you  will  adopt,  but  one  or  other  of 
them  there  is  no  escaping  from.  You  must  either 
live  by  your  own  labor,  lad,  or  by  that  of  others, 
or  else  you  must  starve — such  is  the  lot  of  all." 

"  Work,  beggary,  or  death !"  echoed  the  boy, 
as  he  chewed  the  cud  of  his  first  lesson  in  life. 
"  Work,  beggary,  or  death  /" 

Then  suddenly  turning  to  his  uncle,  the  little 
fellow  exclaimed,  "  You  have  given  me  thoughts 
I  never  knew  before.  Let  me  go  home  and  tell 
my  father  and  mother  how  different  a  boy  you 
have  made  me,  and  my  future  life  shall  show  you 
how  much  I  owe  to  this  day's  lesson." 

The  journey  home  was  soon  performed,  for 
young  Benjamin  was  too  full  of  what  he  had 
heard  to  feel  the  distance  they  journeyed. 

"  Well,  Ben,  my  boy,"  exclaimed  the  father,  as 
the  little  fellow  entered  the  candle-store,  "  what 
sport  have  you  had  ?  What  have  you  brought 
home  ?" 

"I  have  brought  one  fish,"  answered  his  son, 
demurely. 

"  Is  that  all  ?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"  No,"  replied  the  altered  youth.    "  I  have  come 


86  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

back  with  one  fish  and  one  strong  determination, 
father." 

"  Eh,  indeed !  A  strong  determination  to  do 
what,  my  lad?"  said  the  parent. 

"  To  lead  a  new  life  for  the  future,"  was  the 
grave  response  of  the  little  man. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"A  HIT!  A  HIT!" 

THAT  night,  after  the  evening  hymn  had  been 
chanted  by  the  family,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
the  father's  violin  as  usual,  and  young  Benjamin 
had  retired  to  rest,  the  conversation  of  the  broth 
ers  and  the  wife  turned  upon  the  marked  change 
that  had  occurred  in  the  little  fellow's  behavior. 

"  He  certainly  seems  a  different  lad,"  observed 
the  father,  as  he  arranged  the  table  for  the  hit  at 
backgammon  that  he  and  his  brother  Benjamin 
occasionally  indulged  in  after  the  day's  work; 
"quite  a  different  lad.  I  really  don't  think  he 
uttered  a  word  beyond  '  asking  the  blessing'  all 
supper-time." 

"And  when  I  went  up  to  his  room  to  take  his 
light,"  chimed  in  the  mother,  who  had  now  set 
tled  down  to  her  knitting,  and  was  busy  refoot- 
ing  a  pair  of  the  young  carpenter's  worsted  stock 
ings,  "  the  dear  child  was  praying  to  God  to  give 
him  grace  and  strength  to  carry  out  his  new  pur 
pose." 

"  Well !  well !  that  looks  healthy  enough, 
mother,"  exclaimed  Josiah,  rattling  away  at  the 
dice-box,  "  if  it'll  only  last.  You  see  the  flesh  is 
weak  with  all  of  us,  and  children  are  but  reeds  in 
the  wind — poor  little  reeds,  mother." 

"  Last !"  echoed -Benjamin,  as  he  raised  his  eye 


"A  HIT!   A  HIT!"  87 

for  a  moment  from  his  brother's  game,  "  why, 
with  God's  blessing,  it's  sure  to  last,  that  it  is. 
What  I've  told  you  all  along,  Josh,  is  that  you 
hadn't  faith  in  that  boy's  mind.  He's  as  like  our 
own  brother  Tom,  I  say  again,  as  one  grain  of 
sand  is  to  another ;  and  as  our  Thomas  came  to 
be  the  foremost  man  of  our  family,  why,  mark  my 
words,  Josh,  your  Ben  will  grow  up  to  be  the 
greatest  man  in  all  yours,  though  I  dare  say 
none  of  us  here  will  ever  be  spared  to  see  the 
day.  The  boy  has  a  fine  common-sense  mind  of 
his  own,  and  where  there's  a  mind  to  work  upon, 
you  can  do  any  thing,  brother,  within  reason. 
With  jackasses,  of  course  you  must  give  them 
the  stick  to  make  them  go  the  way  you  want ; 
but  with  rational  creatures,  it's  only  a  fool  that 
believes  blows  can  do  more  than  logic.  What 
first  set  you  and  me  thinking  about  our  duties  in 
life,  Josh  ?"  he  asked,  and  gave  the  dice-box  an 
extra  rattle  as  he  paused  for  a  reply.  "  Was  it 
kicks,  eh  ?  'kicks  and  cuffs  ?  No ;  but  it  was  sit 
ting  under  good  old  Luke  Fuller  at  the  North 
ampton  Conventicle,  and  listening  to  his  godly 
teachings — that  it  was,  if  I  know  any  thing  about 
it.  And  now  I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean  to  do  with 
my  godson  Ben.  I've  made  myself  responsible 
for  the  errors  of  his  youth,  you  know,  and  what 
I  mean  to  do  is  this — " 

The  mother  stopped  her  needles  for  the  mo 
ment  as  she  awaited  anxiously  the  conclusion  of 
the  speech ;  but  Benjamin,  who  by  this  time  had 
got  by  far  the  best  of  the  hit  at  backgammon, 
paused  to  watch  the  result  of  the  throw  he  was 
about  to  make;  and  when  the  dice  were  cast 
upon  the  board,  Josiah,  who,  like  his  brother,  was 
divided  between  the  discourse  and  the  contest, 
inquired, 

"  Well,  and  what  do  you  mean  to  do,  Master 
Ben  ?" 


88  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

"  Why,  I  mean  to  gammon  you  nicely  this  time, 
Master  Josh,"  he  replied  with  a  chuckle  as  he 
"  took  up"  the  "  blot"  his  antagonist  had  left  on 
the  board. 

"  Tut !  tut !  man  alive,"  returned  Josiah,  in  a 
huff  at  the  ill  luck  which  pursued  him.  "But 
what  do  you  mean  to  do  with  the  boy,  I  want  to 
know?" 

"  Why,  I  mean,"  answered  brother  Benjamin, 
abstractedly,  as  the  game  drew  to  a  close,  and  he 
kept  gazing  intently  at  the  board,  "  I  mean — " 
and  then,  as  he  took  off  his  last  man,  and  started 
up,  rubbing  his  palms  together  as  briskly  as  if  it 
were  a  sharp  frost,  with  exultation  over  his  vic 
tory,  he  added,  "  But  you  shall  see — you  shall  see 
what  I  mean  to  do  with  him.  Come,  that's  a  hit 
to  me,  brother." 

It  was  useless  for  Josiah  or  his  wife  to  attempt 
to  get  even  a  clew  to  the  method  Uncle  Benjamin 
intended  to  adopt  with  their  son. 

The  godfather,  on  second  thoughts, "had  judged 
it  better  to  keep  his  mode  of  proceeding  to  him 
self;  and  so,  finding  he  could  hardly  hold  out 
against  the  lengthened  siege  of  the  father  and 
mother,  he  deemed  it  prudent  to  beat  a  retreat ; 
and  accordingly,  seizing  his  rush-light  and  the 
volume  'of  manuscript  sermons,  that  he  never  let 
out  of  his  sight,  he  wished  the  couple  good-night, 
and  retired  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   WILL   AND   THE   WAY. 

A  SMALL  sailing  vessel  lay  becalmed  next  morn 
ing  far  out  in  the  offing  of  the  Massachusetts 
Bay.  The  fresh  breeze  that  had  sprung  up  at 


THE    WILL    AND    THE    WAY.  89 

sunrise  had  gradually  died  away  as  the  day  ad 
vanced  toward  noon,  and  now  the  main-sail  hung 
down  from  the  yard  as  loose  and  straight  as  a 
curtain  from  a  pole,  while  the  boom  kept  swing 
ing  heavily  from  side  to  side  as  the  boat  rolled 
about  in  the  long  and  lazy  swell  of  the  ocean. 
At  the  helm  sat  one  of  the  smartest  young  cock 
swains  out  of  Boston  harbor — Young  Benjamin 
Franklin ;  and  near  him  was  the  uncle  who  had 
undertaken  to  shape  the  little  fellow's  course 
through  life. 

The  lad  was  again  at  a  loss  to  fathom  the  reason 
of  the  trip. 

So  long  as  the  breeze  had  lasted  he  had  been 
too  deeply  engrossed  with  the  management  of 
the  craft — too  pleased  with  watching  the  bows 
of  the  tiny  vessel  plow  their  way  through  the 
foaming  water,  like  a  sledge  through  so  much 
snow — to  trouble  his  brains  much  about  the  ob 
ject  of  an  excursion  so  congenial  to  his  heart. 
So  long  as  the  summer  waves  rushed  swiftly  as 
a  mill-sluice  past  the  gunwale  of  the  boat,  and  the 
hull  lay  over  almost  on  its  side  under  the  press 
ure  of  the  pouting  sail,  the  blood  went  dancing, 
almost  as  cheerily  as  the  waves,  through  the  veins 
of  the  excited  boy,  and  his  hand  grasped  the  till 
er  with  the  same  pride  as  a  horseman  holds  the 
rein  of  a  swift  and  well-trained  steed.  But  when 
the  wind  flagged,  and  the  sail  began  to  beat  back 
ward  and  forward  with  each  lull  in  the  breeze, 
like  the  fluttering  wing  of  a  wounded  gull,  the 
little  fellow  could  not  keep  from  wondering  why 
Uncle  Benjamin  had  brought  him  out  to  sea. 
What  could  any  one  learn  of  the  ways  of  the 
world  in  an  open  boat  far  away  from  land  ? 

The  boy,  however,  lacked  the  courage  to  in 
quire  what  it  all  meant. 

Presentlv  he  turned  his  head  to  note  the  dis- 


9U  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

tance  they  had  run,  and  cried  as  he  looked  back 
toward  Boston,  "  Why,  I  declare,  uncle,  we  can 
hardly  see  the  State  House !" 

"Yes,  lad,"  was  the  answer,  "the  town  has 
faded  into  a  mere  blot  of  haze ;  but  how  finely 
the  long  curving  line  of  the  crescent-shaped  bay 
appears  to  rampart  the  ocean  round,  now  that  the 
entire  sweep  of  the  shore  is  brought  within  grasp 
of  the  eye !  What  a  vast  basin  it  looks ;  so  vast, 
indeed,  that  the  capes  which  form  the  horns  of 
the  crescent  coast  seem  to  be  the  very  ends  of  the 
earth  itself !  And  yet,  vast  as  it  looks  to  us,  lad, 
this  great  tract  of  shore  is  but  a  mere  span's  length 
in  comparison  with  the  enormous  American  con 
tinent  ;  that  continent  which  is  a  third  part  of  the 
entire  earth — one  of  the  three  gigantic  tongues 
of  land  that  stretch  down  from  the  north  pole,* 
and  ridge  the  ocean  as  if  they  were  so  many 
mighty  sea-walls  raised  to  break  the  fury  of  the 
immense  flood  of  water  enveloping  the  globe. 
Now  tell  me,  who  was  it  that  discovered  the 
great  continent  before  us,  Benjamin?" 

"  Cristofaro  Colombo,  the  Genoese  sailor,  on  the 
llth  of  October,  in  the  year  1492,"  quickly  an 
swered  the  nephew,  proud  of  the  opportunity  of 
displaying  his  knowledge  of  the  history  of  his  na 
tive  land. 

"  And  that  is  but  little  more  than  two  hundred 
years  ago,"  the  other  added.  "  For  thousands  of 
years  one  third  of  the  entire  earth  was  not  even 
known  to  exist  by  the  civilized  portion  of  the 

*  The  three  tongues  of  land  spoken  of  are,  1 .  North  and 
South  America;  2.  Europe  and  Africa;  3.  Asia  and  Aus 
tralasia.  Each  of  these  great  tracts  is  more  or  less  divided 
midway  into  two  portions.  Between  the  two  Americas  flow 
the  Gulf  of  Mexico  and  the  Caribbean  Sea ;  between  Eu 
rope  and  Africa,  on  the  other  hand,  runs  the  Mediterranean ; 
while  Asia  and  Australasia  are  separated  by  the  Chinese 
Sea  and  Indian  Archipelago. 


THE    WILL    AND    THE    WAY.  91 

globe ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  will  of  that 
Genoese  sailor,  you  and  I,  Ben,  most  likely,  would 
not  have  been  gazing  at  this  same  land  at  this 
same  moment." 

"  The  will  of  Columbus !"  echoed  the  nephew, 
in  wonderment  at  the  speech. 

"  Yes,  boy.  I  have  brought  you  out  in  this  boat 
to-day  to  show  you  what  the  mere  will  of  a  man 
can  compass,"  continued  the  uncle ;  "  for  I  want 
to  impress  upon  you,  my  little  fellow,  now  that 
we  are  here,  with  the  mighty  American  shore 
stretching  miles  away  before  our  eyes,  how  the 
will  of  a  simple  mariner  gave  these  mighty  shores 
an  existence  to  the  rest  of  the  habitable  globe." 

"The  will!"  repeated  the  boy. 

"  Yes,  Benjamin,  the  will !"  the  uncle  iterated 
emphatically ;  "  for  the  finding  of  this  great  coun 
try  was  not  a  mere  accidental  discovery — not  a 
blind  stumbling  over  a  heap  of  earth  in  the  dark 
— but  the  mature  fruition  of  a  purpose  long  Con 
ceived  and  sustained  in  the  mind.  When  did 
Columbus  first  form  the  design  of  reaching  India 
by  a  westward  course  ?"  asked  the  old  man,  de 
lighted  to  catechise  his  little  godson  concerning 
the  chronicles  of  America. 

Young  Ben  reflected  for  a  moment,  and  then 
stammered  out,  as  if  half  in  doubt  about  the  date, 
"As  early  as  the — as  the  year  1474, 1  think  the 
book  says,  uncle." 

"  Yes,  boy,  he  formed  the  design  nearly  twenty 
years  before  he  made  the  discovery.  To  reach 
India  by  sea,"  proceeded  the  mentor, "  was  the 
great  problem  of  navigation  in  those  days.  Mar 
co  Polo  had  traveled  overland  as  far  even  as  China 
and  Japan ;  but  the  boats  of  our  forefathers,  flat- 
bottomed  as  they  were,  and  impelled  only  by  oars, 
were  unable  to  venture  far  out  of  sight  of  land  ; 
for  in  those  days  sailors  hadn't  even  the  knowl- 


92  YOUNG   BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

edge  of  the  compass,  nor  of  any  instrument  to 
measure  the  altitudes  of  the  stars,  whereby  to 
guide  a  vessel  in  its  course.  Even  the  passage  to 
India  round  by  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  was  a 
voyage  that  none  as  yet*had  had  the  hardihood 
to  undertake.  Well,  and  what  were  the  reasons 
Columbus  had  for  believing  that  land  lay  across 
the  Atlantic  ?" 

"The  objects  cast  on  the  shores  of  Europe  aft 
er  westerly  winds,"  spoke  out  the-boy,  for  the  in 
teresting  story  of  the  discovery  of  America  had 
been  scanned  over  and  over  again  by  him.  "Be 
sides,  you  know,  uncle,  after  Columbus  married 
Philippa  de  Palestrello,  he  supported  himself,  and 
kept  his  old  father  too,  at  Genoa  by  drawing 
maps  and  charts." 

"  There's  a  brave  lad !"  returned  the  uncle,  pat 
ting  his  godson  encouragingly  on  the  head,  till 
each  kindly  touch  from  the  old  man  thrilled 
through  every  nerve  of  the  youngster;  "and  in 
the  old  charts  by  Andrea  Bianco  and  others  of 
Venice,  Columbus  had  doubtlessly  been  struck  by 
the  long  range  of  territory  that  was  vaguely  in 
dicated  as  lying  to  the  west  of  the  Canary  Isl 
ands.  Well,  when  the  sailor  had  once  formed  the 
idea  of  crossing  the  Atlantic  in  quest  of  land,  what 
did  he  do  ?  Did  he  sit  down  and  grieve  that  he 
was  too  poor  to  fit  out  the  fleet  that  was  necessa 
ry  to  put  the  project  into  execution,  eh,  lad  ?" 

"  No,  uncle,"  was  the  ready  reply ;  "  he  jour 
neyed  with  his  little  son  Diego,  who  was  then,  if 
I  remember  rightly,  only  eleven  years  old  (for  his 
wife  Philippa,  you  know,  uncle,  had  died  some 
time  before),  to  the  different  courts  of  Europe,  in 
the  hope  of  getting  some  of  the  kings  to  give  him 
ships  and  men  for  the  voyage." 

"  Ay ;  and  when  he  found  himself  foiled  by  the 
intrigues  of  the  courtiers  of  John  the  Second  of 


THE    WILL    AND    THE    WAY.  93 

Portugal,  and  the  great  scheme  of  crossing  the 
Atlantic  rejected  by  the  council  of  the  state,  did 
the  sailor  give  way  to  despair,  and  abandon  the 
project  forever  in  disgust?"  again  the  old  man 
interrogated  the  youth. 

"  No,  Uncle  Benjamin;  he  set  out  with  his  lit 
tle  son  to  Spain,  though  in  the  greatest  poverty 
at  the  time,  and  there  sought  the  assistance  of 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella." 

"And  how  long  did  he  remain  there,  lad,  danc 
ing  attendance  on  the  lackeys  of  a  government, 
many  of  whom  even  laughed  to  scorn  the  notion 
of  the  world  being  round  ?"  was  the  next  query. 

"  Five  years  he  staid  in  Spain,"  the  youth  re 
plied. 

"And  when  all  hope  failed  him  there,  what  did 
he  afterward  ?  Did  he  lose  heart,  and  pluck  his 
long-cherished  purpose  out  of  his  mind  ?" 

"  No,  no !"  exclaimed  the  lad,  whom  the  uncle 
had  now  worked  up  to  a  sense  of  the  sailor's  in 
domitable  determination;  "Columbus  then  got 
his  brother  Bartholomew  to  make  proposals  for 
the  voyage  to  Henry  VII.  of  England." 

"  Yes,"  exclaimed  the  elder  Benjamin,  "  and  to 
England  this  man  of  stern  will  would  most  as 
suredly  have  gone  had  not  the  Queen  Isabella, 
when  she  heard  of  it,  been  persuaded  to  send  for 
him  back." 

"And  then,  you  know,  she  consented  to  pledge 
her  jewels  so  as  to  raise  money  enough  for  the 
expedition,"  chimed  in  little  Benjamin. 

"  So  she  did,  my  little  man,"  the  godfather  re 
turned  with  an  approving  nod ;  "  and  by  such 
means,  at  last,  three  small  vessels,  the  *  Santa 
Maria,'  the  '  Pinta,'  and  the  l  Nina'  (two  of  them, 
remember,  being  without  decks),  were  fitted  for 
sea,  and  one  hundred  and  twenty  hands  to  man 
them  collected,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  with  the 


94  YOUNG   BENJAMIN    FEANKLIN. 

greatest  difficulty,  owing  to  the  general  dread  of 
the  passage.  And  when  the  tiny  fleet  of  fishing- 
smacks  (for  it  was  little  better,  boy)  ultimately 
set  sail — on  the  3d  of  August,  1492,  it  was — out 
of  the  port  of  Palos,  in  the  Mediterranean,  and 
made  straight  away  for  the  broad  havenless  ocean 
itself,  did  the  will  of  the  bold  adventurer — the 
will  that  he  had  nursed  through  many  a  long  year 
of  trial,  want,  and  scorn — did  it  waver  one  jot 
then,  or  still  point  to  the  opposite  shore,  steady 
as  the  compass  itself  to  the  pole  ?  ay,  and  that 
even  though  he  knew  that  the  crew  he  command 
ed  were  timid  as  deer,  and  the  boats  he  had  to 
navigate  almost  as  unseaworthy  as  cradles  ?" 

"  I  never  read  the  story  in  this  way  before, 
uncle,"  exclaimed  the  thoughtful  boy,  now  that 
the  object  of  his  teacher  began  to  dawn  upon  his 
mind. 

"  I  dare  say  not,  lad ;  but  hear  the  grand  tale 
to  its  end,"  was  the  answer.  "  Well,  for  some 
months,  you  know,  Ben,  the  wretched  little  fleet 
of  open  boats  had  been  beating  about  the  wide 
and  apparently  boundless  Atlantic,  and  the  sail 
ors,  worn  with  fatigue  and  long  want  of  shelter 
and  proper  food,  had  grown  mutinous  and  savage 
at  searching  for  what  seemed  to  them  like  the 
very  end  of  space  itself;  and  then  the  great  ad 
miral  (for  you  remember  he  had  been  made  one), 
though  still  fortified  by  the  same  indomitable  pur 
pose  as  ever,  was  obliged,  after  exhausting  every 
other  resource,  to  beg  of  his  rebellious  sailors  a 
few  days'  grace,  and  to  promise  to  return  with 
them  then,  if  unsuccessful.  Night  and  day  after 
ward  did  this  man  of  iron  resolution  gaze  into  the 
clouds  that  rested  on  the  horizon,  and  believe  he 
saw  in  them  the  very  land  that  his  fancy  had  dis 
covered  there  nearly  twenty  years  before  ;  but  at 
last  this  same  cloud-land  had  so  often  cheated  the 


THE    WILL   AND    THE    WAY.  15 

sight,  that  all  hope  of  seeing  any  shore  in  that 
quarter  had  been  banished  from  every  breast — 
but  his  own.  One  night,  however — the  memora 
ble  night  of  the  15th  of  October,  1492 — as  the 
admiral  sat  on  the  poop  of  the  '  Santa  Maria'  peer 
ing  into  the  darkness  itself,  he  thought  he  beheld 
moving  lights  in  the  distance ;  then  the  crew 
were  called  up  to  watch  them,  and  eye  after  eye 
began  to  see  the  same  bright  fiery  specks  wan 
dering  about  in  the  haze  as  the  admiral  himself; 
until,  at  length,  doubt  grew  into  conviction,  and 
a  wild  exulting  cry  of  '  Land !  land !'  arose  from 
every  voice. 

"  And  when  the  morning  dawned,  and  the  eyes 
of  Columbus  gazed  upon  that  strange  coast,  crim 
soned  over  and  gilt  with  the  rays  of  the  rising 
sun,  who  shall  describe  the  passions  that  crowded 
in  his  bosom  ?  who  shall  tell  the  honest  pride  he 
felt  at  the  power  of  the  will  which  had  led  him 
to  summon,  into  existence  as  it  were,  the  very 
land  before  him?  or  how  even  he  himself  mar 
veled  over  that  stanch  fortitude  of  purpose  which 
had  sustained  him  through  years  of  trial  to  such 
an  end  ?" 

"It  icas,  then,"  said  the  boy,  half  stricken  down 
with  wonder  at  the  thought,  now  that  he  could 
grasp  it  in  all  its  grandeur,  "  the  will  of  Columbus 
that  gave  America  to  us." 

"  It  was,  lad,  the  will  of  the  heroic  Genoese 
sailor,  expressing  the  will  of  God ;  and  if  it  was 
the  will  of  a  simple  mariner  that  first  made  known 
this  enormous  continent — this  new  world,  as  we 
call  it — why,  it  was  merely  the  same  inflexible 
resolution  that  first  peopled  it  with  the  very  race 
that  now  possesses  it." 

•"  Indeed !"  cried  the  boy,  in  greater  amazement 
than  ever. 

"  Yes,  Ben,"  was  the  answer.     "  The  same  iron 


96  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FEANKLIN. 

determination  was  in  the  souls  of  the  Pilgrim  Fa 
thers  as  in  that  of  Columbus  himself;  but  theirs 
was  one  of  a  holier  nature.  They  sought  these 
lands  neither  quickened  by  a  life  of  adventure 
nor  stirred  by  the  lust  of  riches.  They  had  mere 
ly  one  immovable  purpose  in  their  heart — to  wor 
ship  the  Almighty  after  the  dictates  of  their  own 
conscience — and  it  was  this  that  led  the  pious 
band  to  quit  the  shores  of  the  Humber  in  the  old 
country ;  this  that  sustained  them  for  years  as 
exiles  in  Holland ;  and  this  which  ultimately  bore 
them  across  the  Atlantic  in  the  ;  Speedwell'  and 
the  4  Mayflower,'  and  gave  them  strength  to  fight 
through  the  terrors  of  the  first  winter  here  in 
their  adopted  father-land." 

"  How  strange !"  exclaimed  the  musing  lad ; 
"  will  discovered  the  land,  and  will  peopled  it." 

"  Yes,  Benjamin  ;  it  was  to  make  you  compre 
hend  the  power  of  this  same  will  in  man  that  I 
brought  you  out  here  to-day.  I  wanted  to  let 
you  see  almost  with  a  bird's  eye  the  mighty  ter 
ritory  that  has  been  created  by  it.  The  plains, 
which  a  few  years  back  were  mere  wild  and  half- 
barren  hunting-grounds  possessed  by  savages,  are 
now  studded  with  large  and  noble  towns — the 
fields  striped  with  roads  and  belted  with  canals 
— the  coast  pierced  with-  harbors — the  land  rich 
with  vegetation — the  cities  busy  with  factories — 
the  havens  bristling  with  shipping  —  ay,  and  all 
called  into  existence  by  the  indomitable  will  of 
the  one  man  who  originally  discovered  the  coun 
try,  and  that  of  the  conscientious  band  who  after 
ward  came  from  England  to  make  a  home  of  it. 
It  was  the  will  of  the  Almighty  that  first  summon 
ed  the  land  out  of  the  water,  lad ;  and  it  is  the 
same  God-like  quality  in  man — the  great  creative 
and  heroic  faculty  —  that  changes  barren  plains 
into  fertile  fields,  and  builds  up  cities  in  the  wil 
derness." 


HOW   TO    MAKE   WOKK   PLEASANT.  97 


CHAPTER  X. 

HOW   TO   MAKE   WORK   PLEASANT   AND   PROFITABLE. 

IT  was  now  time  for  the  uncle  and  nephew  to 
think  about  returning  to  Boston  harbor.  They 
had  promised  to  be  home  to  a  late  dinner  at  two ; 
but  the  promise  had  been  made  irrespective  of 
the  wind  and  the  tide,  and  the  couple  were  then 
some  miles  out  at  sea,  without  a  breath  of  wind 
strong  enough  to  waft  a  soap-bubble  through  the 
air,  and  with  a  strong  ebb  current  drifting  them 
farther  from  land. 

The  head  of  the  vessel  was  at  length,  by  dint  of 
sculling,  brought  round  to  the  shore,  but  still  the 
sail  hung  down  as  limp  and  straight  as  the  feath 
ers  of  barn-door  fowls  after  a  heavy  shower,  and 
even  the  paper  that  the  uncle  threw  overboard 
(as  he  opened  the  packet  of  bread  and  meat  they 
had  brought  with  them)  floated  perpetually  by 
the  ship's  side,  as  motionless  as  the  pennant  at 
the  mast-head. 

"  Heyday,  my  man,  we  seem  to  be  in  a  pretty 
fix  here,"  cried  Uncle  Benjamin,  as  he  munched 
the  bread  and  beef,  while  he  kept  his  eyes  rivet 
ed  on  the  piece  of  the  old  "Boston  Gazette"  swim 
ming  beside  them  in  the  water.  "  What  do  you 
say,  my  little  captain — what's  to  be  done  ?  Re 
member,  I'm  in  your  hands,  youngster." 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  done  that  I  see,  uncle," 
returned  the  youth,  as  he  smiled  with  delight  at 
the  idea  of  being  promoted  to  the  captaincy  of 
the  vessel — "nothing  but  to  wait  out  here  pa 
tiently  till  sundown,  and  then  a  breeze  will  spring 
G 


98  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FUANKLIN. 

up,  most  likely ;  it  generally  does,  you  know,  at 
that  time.  But  I  thought  it  'ud  be  so,  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  while  you  were  talking ;  and  I  should 
have  whistled  for  a  wind  long  ago,  but  I  fancied 
you  might  think  I  wasn't  attending.  It's  impos 
sible  to  pull  back  with  this  heavy  tide  against  us ; 
and  if  you  look  out  to  sea,  uncle,  there  isn't  a  puff 
of  wind  to  be  seen  coming  up  along  the  water 
any  where;"  and  as  he  said  the  words  the  little 
monkey  put  his  hand  up  before  his  brows,  in  im 
itation  of  his  old  sailor  friends,  and  looked  under 
them  in  all  directions,  to  observe  whether  he 
could  distinguish  in  the  distance  that  ruffling  of 
the  glassy  surface  of  the  water  which  marks  the 
approach  of  a  breeze  in  a  calm. 

"  Well,  captain,  what  must  be  must"  said  the 
godfather,  calmly  resigning  himself  with  all  the 
gusto  of  a  philosopher  at  once  to  the  position  and 
the  victuals.  "There's  no  use  railing  against 
the  wind,  you  know,  and  it's  much  better  having 
to  wlristle  for  a  breeze  than  a  dinner,  I  can  tell 
you.  So  come,  lad,  while  you  fell  foul  of  the 
meat  and  the  cider,  I  can  be  treating  you  to  a 
little  snack  of  worldly  philosophy  by  way  of  salt 
to  the  food ;  and  so,  you  see,  you  can  be  digest 
ing  your  dinner  and  your  duty  in  life  both  at  the 
same  time." 

The  youngster  proceeded  to  carry  out  his  un 
cle's  order  in  good  earnest,  for  the  sea-trip  had 
whetted  his  bodily  appetite  as  much  as  the  story 
of  Columbus  had  sharpened  the  edge  of  his  wits ; 
so,  pulling  out  his  clasp-knife,  he  fell  to  devouring 
the  buffalo  hump  and  the  old  man's  discourse  al 
most  with  -equal  heartiness. 

"  Well,  my  son,"  proceeded  the  elder  Benja 
min,  "  I  have  shown  you  the  power  of  the  will  in 
great  things,  and  now  I  want  to  point  out  to  you 
the  use  of  it  in  Avhat  the  world  calls  c  little  things.' 


HOW   TO   MAKE   WOKK   PLEASANT.  99 

I  have  made  you  understand,  I  think,  that  the 
prime  necessity  of  life  is  labor.  But  labor  is  nat 
urally  irksome  to  us.  You  remember,  boy,  it  was 
the  primeval  curse  inflicted  upon  man." 

^  "  So  it  was !"  exclaimed  the  lad,  in  haste  to  let 
his  uncle  see  that  he  knew  well  to  what  he  re 
ferred.  " '  In  the  sweat  of  thy  face  shalt  thou  eat 
bread,'  were  the  words,  uncle." 
^  "  Good,  good,  my  son.  I'll  make  a  fine,  up 
right  man  of  you  before  I  have  done,  that  I  will," 
added  the  delighted  godfather.  "But  labor, 
though  naturally  irksome  and  painful,  still  ad 
mits,  like  hunger  itself,  of  being  made  a  source 
of  pleasure  to  us." 

"How  can  that  be?"  the  nephew  inquired. 

"  Well,  Ben,"  the  uncle  went  on,  "  there  are 
three  means — and  only  three,  so  far  as  I  know — 
by  which  work  may  be  rendered  more  or  less  de 
lightful  to  all  men.  The  first  of  these  means  is 
variety ;  the  second,  habit  /  and  the  third,  pur 
pose,  or  object" 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  uncle,"  was  all  the 
boy  said. 

"You  know,  my  little  man,"  the  other  went 
on,  "  that  as  it  is  hard  and  difficult  to  remain  at 
the  same  occupation  for  any  length  of  time,  so 
does  it  become  a  matter  of  mere  recreation  to 
shift  from  one  employment  to  another  as  soon  as 
we  grow  tired  of  what  we  have  been  previously 
doing.  Child's  play  is  merely  labor  made  easy, 
and  what  boys  call  amusement  is  often  very  hard 
work.  But  it  is  the  change  of  occupation  that 
makes  even  the  severest  muscular  exercise  a  mat 
ter  of  sport  to  youth.  A  whole  life  of  foot-ball, 
however,  or  fifty  years  at  leap-frog,  would  be  far 
more  fatiguing,  I  can  tell  you,  than  the  hewing 
of  wood  or  the  drawing  of  water.  And  even  this 
boating,  which  is  so  delightful  to  you,  lad,  when 


100  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

pursued  as  a  relaxation  or  relief  from  other  modes 
of  work,  is  the  heaviest  possible  punishment  to 
the  poor  galley-slaves  who  are  doomed  to  it  for 
the  term  of  their  natural  lives.  The  great  zest 
of  life  is  change,  boy,  even  as  the  chief  drug  of 
our  existence  is  the  mental  and  bodily  fatigue 
which  arises  from  long  continuance  at  the  same 
pursuit.  Recreation,  indeed,  is  merely  that  res 
toration  of  energy  which  comes  from  change  of 
work  or  occupation;  and  it  is  this  principle  of 
change  or  variety  in  labor  which,  as  with  the 
boating  of  boys,  can  transform  even  the  hard  work 
of  galley-slaves  into  a  matter  of  child's  play." 

"  Oh,  then,  uncle,"  cried  little  Benjamin,  flush 
ed  with  the  belief  that  he  had  made  a  grand  dis 
covery,  "  why  not  let  people  work  at  a  number 
of  different  things,  and  do  each  for  only  a  little 
time,  instead  of  setting  them  to  labor  always  at 
the  same  pursuit  for  the  whole  of  their  lives? 
Every  one  would  \>efond  of  working  then." 

"  Yes ;  but,  lad,"  rejoined  the  old  man,  smiling 
as  well  at  the  simplicity  as  at  the  aptness  of  his 
pupil,  "  this  flighty  or  erratic  kind  of  labor  would 
be  of  no  more  value  to  the  world  than  are  the 
sports  of  children.  A  tailor  must  continue  using 
the  needle  for  years,  Ben,  before  he  can  work  a 
button-hole  fit  to  be  seen.  How  long  must  peo 
ple  have  toiled  on  and  on,  generation  after  gen 
eration,  before  they  learned  how  to  make  window- 
glass  and  bottles  out  of  the  sand  and  the  weeds 
by  the  sea-shore!  Could  you  or  I,  Ben,  ever 
hope,  by  laboring  half  an  hour  a  day,  to  get  a 
pair  of  scissors  or  a  razor  out  of  a  lump  of  iron 
stone,  or  to  fashion  a  slice  of  an  elephant's  tusk 
into  the  exquisitely  nice  symmetry  of  a  billiard 
ball?  For  labor  to  be  of  special  use  and  value 
to  the  world,  it  must  have  some  special  skill ;  and 
skilled  labor,  being  but  the  cunning  of  the  fingers, 


HOW    TO    MAKE    WORK    PLEASANT.  101 

requires  the  same  long  education  of  the  hands 
as  deep  learning  does  of  the  head.  It  is  because 
savages  and  vagabonds  have  no  settled  occupa 
tions  that  their  lives  are  comparatively  worthless 
to  the  rest  of  mankind." 

"  I  see  now !"  ejaculated  the  thoughtful  boy. 

"Yes,  my  lad,  variety  of  occupation  makes 
work  as  pleasant  as  play,"  the  uncle  added,  "  but 
it  makes  it  as  valueless  also.  So  now  let  us  turn 
to  the  second  means  of  making  labor  agreeable." 

"  And  that's  habit >  I  think  you  said,"  interject 
ed  the  younger  Benjamin. 

"  I  did,"  he  replied.  "  Now  habit,  I  should 
first  tell  you,  my  little  man,  is  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  principles  in  the  whole  human  consti 
tution.  The  special  function  of  habit  is  to  make 
that  which  is  at  first  irksome  for  us  to  do,  pleas 
ant  after  a  time  to  perform :  it  serves  to  render 
the  actions  which  originally  required  an  express 
effort  on  our  part  to  execute,  so  purely  mechan 
ical,  as  it  were  (when  they  have  been  frequently 
and  regularly  repeated  for  a  certain  period),  as 
to  need  almost  the  same  express  effort  then  to 
prevent  us  indulging  in  them." 

"  How  strange !"  mused  the  nephew. 

"  The  simple  habit  of  whittling  will  teach  you, 
lad,  how  difficult  it  is  for  people  to  keep  their 
hands  from  doing  work  they  have  been  long  ac 
customed  to.  Again,  when  you  were  trying  to 
play  your  father's  violin,  you  remember  how  hard 
you  found  it  to  move  each  finger  as  you  wanted, 
and  how  your  eye  was  obliged  to  be  fixed  first 
on  the  music-book  and  then  on  the  strings,  in  or 
der  to  touch  each  particular  note  set  down,  until 
at  length,  disgusted  with  the  tedium  of  the  task, 
you  left  off  practicing  on  the  instrument  alto 
gether  ?  And  yet,  had  you  pursued  the  study, 
there  is  no  doubt  you  would  ultimately  have 


102  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FKANKLIN. 

played  with  all  the  ease,  and  even  pleasure,  of 
your  father,  and  have  got  to  work  your  fingers 
ere  long  with  the  same  nimbleness,  and  even  the 
same  inattention,  as  your  mother  plies  her  knit 
ting-needles  while  reading  in  the  evening." 

"  So  I  should,  I  dare  say ;  but  isn't  it  odd,  un 
cle,  that  mere  habit  should  do  this  ?"  observed 
the  lad,  as  he  grew  alive  to  the  wonders  worked 
by  it. 

"  It  is  odd,  my  boy — very  odd,  indeed,  that  the 
mere  repetition  of  acts  at  frequent  and  regular 
intervals  (for  that  is  all  that  is  required)  should 
make  them,  however  difficult  and  distasteful  at 
first,  grow  easy  and  congenial  to  us  in  time ;  that 
it  should  change  pain  into  pleasure,  labor  into 
pastime;  that  it  should  render  a  certain  set  of 
muscles  unconscious  of  effort,  and  callous  to  fa 
tigue,  and  transform  the  most  arduous  voluntary 
actions  into  the  simplicity  and  insensibility  of 
mere  clock-work.  But  so  it  is,  my  little  man; 
and  it  is  this  same  principle  of  habit  applied  to 
the  different  forms  of  manual  labor  which  consti 
tutes  what  is  termed  '  industrial  training ;'  it  is 
this  which  makes  '  skill'  in  the  world,  and  gives 
to  the  handiwork  of  mechanics  a  stamp  of  the 
cunning  and  dignity  of  art." 

"  The  use  of  apprenticeship,  then,  I  suppose," 
observed  the  boy,  "  is  to  form  a  kind  of  habit  of 
working  in  a  particular  way — isn't  it  so,  uncle  ?" 

"  Well  said,  my  quick  little  man.  There  is  a 
high  pleasure  in  teaching  such  as  take  delight  in 
learning,  like  you,  Ben." 

"  But,  uncle,"  continued  the  youth,  tingling  all 
over  with  delight  at  the  applause,  "  if  habit  can 
do  away  with  the  unpleasantness  of  labor,  where 
can  be  the  use  of  the  other  thing  you  spoke  of  as 
a  means  of  making  work  agreeable  —  though  I 
forget  what  you  said  it  was,  I'm  sure." 


HOW   TO    MAKE    WOEK   PLEASANT.  103 

"  It  was  purpose  or  object,  my  lad,  that  I  told 
you  makes  work  pleasant  also." 

"Oh  yes,  so  it  was— purpose  or  object,"  young 
Benjamin  repeated;  "but  I  hardly  know  what 
you  mean  by  such  grand  words." 

"  They  are  not  only  grand  words,  but  they 
stand  for  the  grandest  things  in  life,  my  little  fel 
low,"  the  old  man  went  on.  "  Habit,  after  all, 
makes  a  man  work  but  as  a  machine.  The  black 
smith  who  has  been  long  accustomed  to  wield 
the  sledge-hammer  has  no  more  sense  of  fatigue 
(except  when  he  works  beyond  the  time  he  has 
been  used  to)  than  that  wonderful  new  invention 
the  steam-engine,  which  you  have  seen  swinging 
its  iron  arms  about  as  it  pumps  the  water  out  of 
our  docks.  But  a  man  with  a  purpose,  my  son, 
works  like  a  man,  and  not  like  a  steam-engine, 
even  though  that  very  purpose  makes  him  as  in 
sensible  of  weariness  in  his  labor  as  the  steam-en 
gine  itself." 

"  Does  purpose,  then,  as  you  call  it,  do  the  same 
as  habit,  uncle  ?"  inquired  the  youth. 

"  Yes,  Ben,  but  it  does  that  immediately  which 
habit  requires  years  to  accomplish,  ^nly  let  a 
man  put, his  whole  soul  into  what  he  is  doing— 
let  him  work,  so  to  speak,  lad,  with  his  heart  in 
his  hand,  and  the  toil  is  instantly  made  a  high  and 
grand  delight  to  him.  This  is  the  wonderful  ef 
fect  of  the  will,  Ben.  What  you  will  to  do,  you 
must,  of  course,  do  willingly,  and  therefore  more 
or  less  easily ;  and  labor  is  especially  repulsive 
when  your  will  wants  to  be  off  working  at  one 
thing  while  your  hands  are  constrained  to  be  toil 
ing  at  another.  Those  who  are  without  purpose 
in  life,  boy,  are  vagabonds  either  in  body  or  spirit, 
for  if  there  be  no  settled  object  there  can  hardly 
be  any  settled  pursuit.  Such  people,  therefore, 
fly  from  this  to  that  occupation,  according  as  the 


104  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

caprice  of  the  moment  may  happen  to  sway  them : 
they  are  like  empty  bottles,  lad,  cast  into  the  great 
ocean,  far  away  from  land,  destined  to  be  buffet 
ed  about  by  the  winds  and  the  waves  of  every 
passing  storm,  and  driven  whithersoever  the  cur 
rent  of  the  time  may  chance  to  carry  them.  With 
out  some  enduring  purpose,  boy,  there  can  be  no 
enduring  work ;  and,  after  all,  it  is  continuity  in 
labor,  or  long  persistence  at  the  same  pursuit,  that 
masters  every  difficulty,  and  beats  down  every  ob 
stacle.  The  power  of  the  sturdy  sand-bag,  you 
know,  Ben,  is  far  greater  than  that  of  the  impetu 
ous  cannon  ball." 

"  How  wonderful !"  was  all  the  little  fellow 
could  say,  as  he  mused  over  what  he  heard. 

The  uncle  went  on :  "  But  I  want  to  show  you 
now,  lad,  how  it  is  that  the  will  can  produce  in  an 
instant  the  same  wondrous  changes  as  habit  does 
in  years,  and  I  want  to  do  this  so  as  to  impress 
the  matter  deeply  and  indelibly  on  your  mind.  I 
have  pointed  out  to  you  what  great  things  will 
can  accomplish  in  the  world,  and  I  now  wish  to 
let  you  see  how  easily  and  pleasantly  it  can  ac 
complish  them." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  that,  uncle,"  said  the  at 
tentive  boy,  "  for  as  yet  I  can  hardly  understand 
what  you  mean." 

"  Of  course  you  can  not  comprehend  in  a  min 
ute,  Ben,"  the  old  man  replied,  "  principles  that 
have  cost  philosophers  years  of  study  to  arrive 
at.  But  I  will  try  and  make  the  operation  of  will 
in  man  more  plain  to  you.  Now  I  pointed  out  to 
you  yesterday  that  animals  differ  from  plants — in 
what  respect,  lad  ?" 

"  Why,  in  going  after  their  food  instead  of  hav 
ing  it  brought  to  them,  uncle,"  was  the  ready  re 
ply. 

"  Yes,  my  child  ;  but  animals  go  after  their  food 


HOW   TO    MAKE   WOEK   PLEASANT.  105 

because,  as  I  said,  the  power  of  moving  has  been 
given  to  them,  while  plants  have  no  such  faculty. 
Nothing,  however,  can  move  without  a  cause. 
This  boat  stops,  you  see,  directly  the  propelling 
force  ceases ;  and  the  movements  of  animals,  and 
even  men,  inexplicable  as  they  may  seem  to  you, 
can  proceed  only  from  the  operation  of  uniform 
motive  powers.  You,  of  course,  have  never  ask 
ed  yourself  what  it  is  that  moves  men  to  act  as 
they  do." 

"  I'm  sure  I  never  gave  that  a  thought  as  yet, 
uncle,"  the  boy  replied  frankly.  "  But,  now  I 
come  to  turn  it  over  in  my  mind,  it  seems  to  me 
as  if  nobody  could  tell  as  much." 

"  Indeed,  lad ;  let  us  see.  Well,  Ben,  innumer 
able  as  are  the  movements  continually  going  on 
in  the  human  frame,  they  all  admit  of  being  re 
solved  into  three  kinds,  according  as  they  are  pre 
ceded  or  not  by  some  particular  feeling.  In  the 
first  place,  our  muscles  may  move  like  the  ma 
chinery  of  a  mere  automaton,  or,  in  other  words, 
without  any  feeling  at  all.  Our  heart  beats  and 
our  lungs  expand  continually,  without  our  being 
even  conscious  of  the  incessant  action  going  on 
within  us — ay,  and,  what  is  more  wonderful,  with 
out  the  least  sense  of  fatigue  being  connected 
with  the  work." 

"  Isn't  it  strange,"  Benjamin  exclaimed,  "  that 
our  heart  never  gets  tired  of  moving,  like  our 
limbs  ?" 

"  Yes ;  and  isn't  it  as  kind  as  it  is  strange,  my 
lad,  that  such  should  be  the  case  ?"  the  uncle  re 
minded  his  pupil;  "but  our  muscles  not  only 
move  automatically,  without  any  preceding  feel 
ing,  but  they  move  also  instinctively — that  is  to 
say,  in  consequence  of  some  feeling  which  imme 
diately  precedes  and  gives  rise  to  the  motion. 
Any  sudden  pain,  such  as  a  burn  upon  the  finger, 


106  YOUNG  BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

for  instance,  causes  you  involuntarily  to  contract 
the  muscles  of  the  injured  part,  and  to  withdraw 
the  limb  directly  from  the  object  wounding  you. 
Again,  if  you  are  surprised  or  startled  by  any  un 
expected  circumstance,  your  whole  body  is  drawn 
back,  and  your  hands  thrown  up  immediately,  to 
ward  off  the  fancied  danger — ay,  and  that,  too, 
long  before  you  have  time  to  think  about  what  it 
is  best  to  do,  or  even  to  obtain  any  knowledge  as 
to  the  nature  of  that  which  has  alarmed  you. 
Such  muscular  movements,  however,  are  wholly 
involuntary — that  is  to  say,  they  are  not  left  to 
the  slow  operations  of  our  will  to  conceive  and 
carry  out ;  but,  being  necessary  for  our  preserva 
tion,  in  common  with  that  of  animals,  they  have 
been  made  matters  of  instinct  with  us  as  with 
them ;  or,  in  other  words,  ordained  to  follow  im 
mediately  upon  a  particular  feeling  existing  in  the 
mind." 

"  Is  animal  instinct,  then,"  inquired  the  lad,  as 
he  pondered  over  and  repeated  his  uncle's  words, 
"  merely  a  certain  kind  of  muscular  movement 
made  to  follow  immediately  upon  a  particular 
feeling  ?" 

"  That  is  all,  my  son,"  was  the  reply.  "  The 
bird  builds  its  nest,  not  with  any  thought  of  the 
young  she  is  destined  to  rear,  but  merely  in  con 
sequence  of  a  vague  sensation  that  is  on  her  at 
the  time.  The  squirrel  lays  up  a  store  of  nuts  for 
the  winter,  not  because  it  foresees  a  decrease  of 
the  summer  stock,  but  simply  in  obedience  to  the 
feelings  and  promptings  of  its  nature." 

"  I  see  now,"  mused  the  youth,  as  he  turned 
the  new  truths  over  and  over  in  his  mind. 

"  But  the  muscles  of  man,  my  child,  have  been 
made  to  move,  not  only  instinctively,  or,  what 
amounts  to  the  same  thing,  involuntarily,  accord 
ing  to  the  dictates  of  mere  animal  nature,  but 


HOW   TO   MAKE   WOEK   PLEASANT.  107 

they  have  been  made  to  move  also  voluntarily — 
that  is  to  say,  in  obedience  to  the  suggestions  and 
determination  of  the  will.  Bishop  Cranmer — 
you  know  who  he  was,  Benjamin  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  cried  the  youth,  "  I  know ;  he  was 
one  of  the  martyrs  burnt  with  Ridley  and  Lati- 
mer  opposite  Baliol  College  at  Oxford,  in  Old 
England,  and  he  held  his  hand  in  the  flames  at 
the  stake,  uncle,  because,  as  he  said,  'it  had  of 
fended  him  in  writing  contrary  to  his  heart ;'  and 
he  had  solemnly  declared  at  St.  Mary's  Church 
that  '  if  he  came  to  the  fire  that  hand  should  be 
punished  first.' " 

"  Well  said,  my  good  little  fellow,"  cheered  the 
godfather;  "but  didn't  Cranmer  feel  the  same 
pain  from  the  flames,  think  you,  and  the  same 
animal  instinct  to  withdraw  his  hand  from  them 
as  we  ourselves  should  have  felt  ?  and  yet  it  was 
by  the  determined  effort  of  his  will  that  he  kept 
it  there,  in  defiance  of  the  promptings  of  his  an 
imal  instincts,  as  he  cried  aloud, 4  This  unworthy 
hand !  this  unworthy  hand  !'  and  forced  it  to  burn 
and  char  before  the  rest  of  his  limbs.  Can  you  see 
now)  Benjamin,  what  is  the  use  of  will  in  man  ?" 

"  I  think  I  can,  uncle ;  but  do  you  tell  me,  and 
let  me  hear  whether  I  am  right,"  he  answered, 
for  the  boy  was  afraid  to  trust  himself  to  frame 
his  thoughts  into  speech. 

"Well,  lad,"  Uncle  Benjamin  replied,  "the 
high  and  noble  use  of  man's  will  is  to  control  or 
guide  the  animal  instincts  of  his  nature." 

"  I  thought  it  was  so  from  what  you  said  about 
Cranmer,  uncle ;"  and  the  lad  fell  musing  over  the 
subject  in  his  own  simple  way,  while  the  godfa 
ther  paused  to  watch  with  delight  the  workings 
of  the  boy's  mind,  that,  like  a  newly-fledged  bird, 
was  making  its  first  attempts  to  fly.  "  So  the  use 
of  man's  will,"  the  youth  repeated  over  and  over 


108  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

again  to  himself,  in  order  to  impress  the  words 
well  on  his  memory,  "  is  to  control  or  guide  the 
animal  instincts  of  his  nature." 

"  But  I  say,  my  noble  captain,"  cried  the  uncle, 
again  waking  up  to  a  sense  of  their  position,  "  are 
we  really  to  remain  here  all  day?  I  could  talk 
to  you  quite  as  well  if  we  were  moving  on  a  bit, 
but  this  is  sad  slow  work,  my  boy." 

"  There's  a  strong  ebb-tide  on  just  now,  uncle, 
and  there's  no  making  the  least  headway  against 
that;  and, -let  me  see  —  let  me  see,"  he  mused, 
"  it  would  have  been  high  water  in  the  harbor  to 
day  at  eleven,  so  it  will  be  about  five  o'clock  be 
fore  the  tide  turns,  you  know,"  and  the  youngster 
shook  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say  he  could  dis 
cover  no  means  of  getting  out  of  their  difficulty. 

"  Five  o'clock !  tut,  tut !  and  I  wanted  to  have 
been  at  meeting  at  six."  Then,  as  Uncle  Benja 
min  gave  vent  to  his  impatience,  he  tugged  from 
his  fob  a  watch  as  big  as  the  "bull's-eye"  to  a 
ship's  scuttle,  and  cried,  after  looking  well  at  the 
dial,  and  holding  it  up  to  his  ear  to  satisfy  him 
self  it  was  still  going,  "  Why,  it's  not  three  yet, 
I  declare." 

"  Besides,  you  remember,  uncle,  the  sun  doesn't 
set  now  till  long  past  five,  and  there's  no  chance 
of  a  breeze  till  then,  I'm  certain,"  was  the  only 
consolation  the  little  captain  could  oifer. 

"  But  are  you  quite  sure  of  one  at  that  time, 
you  young  rascal,  eh?"  inquired  the  old  gentle 
man,  in  no  little  alarm  at  the  idea  of  having  to 
pass  the  night  out  at  sea. 

"  There  generally  is  a  breeze  at  sundown,  you 
know,  uncle,"  answered  young  Ben,  delighted  to 
display  his  nautical  knowledge  once  more. 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  I'm  in  your  hands,  cap 
tain — in  your  hands,  bear  in  mind  ;  for,  Heaven 


BECALMED.  109 

knows,  I'm  as  ignorant  as  a  sucking-pig  of  all 
that  concerns  the  water ;"  and,  so  saying,  the 
elder  Benjamin  abandoned  himself  with  becom 
ing  resignation  at  once  to  the  sourness  of  the  cir 
cumstances  and  the  cider. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

BECALMED. 

FOR  a  while  Uncle  Benjamin  silently  grieved 
over  the  untowardness  which  prevented  him  add 
ing  the  discourse  of  that  evening  to  the  three 
volumes  of  manuscript  sermons  that  he  had  writ 
ten  out  from  notes  taken  in  chapel  during  their 
delivery  by  the  most  celebrated  preachers  of  the 
day.  His  temper,  however,  was  of  too  even  and 
cheerful  a  quality  to  be  any  more  ruffled  than  the 
water  itself  by  the  lack  of  wind ;  so,  when  he  had 
drained  the  cider-bottle,  he  wrote  in  pencil  on  a 
slip  of  paper,  "All  well  on  board  'THE  LIVELY 
NANCY,'  off  Boston,  October  2d,  1719  ;"  and  cork 
ing  up  the  playful  memorandum,  flung  the  flagon 
with  the  note  inside  into  the  sea. 

"  There  it  goes,  Ben,"  he  cried,  as  he  watched 
the  bottle  dance  up  and  down  beside  the  boat, 
"without  any  more  purpose  to  direct  it  than  an 
idler.  Where  it  will  ultimately  land,  or  what  will 
be  its  end,  no  one  can  say." 

The  lesson  was  not  wasted  on  the  youth;  so, 
stretching  himself  at  full  length  on  the  seat  op 
posite  his  uncle,  he  said,  as  he  lay  comfortably 
arranged  for  listening,  with  his  cheek  resting  on 
his  hand,  "  You  were  telling  me,  uncle,  about  the 
use  of  the  will,  you  know." 

"  Well,  lad,  the  function  of  our  will,"  the  old 
man  resumed,  "is  to  interfere  between  our  feel- 


110  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

ings  and  our  actions — to  check  in  us  some  sudden 
propensity  that  has  been  prompted  (either  by  the 
sense  of  a  present  pain  or  the  prospect  of  a  future 
pleasure)  before  it  has  time  to  stir  the  muscles. 
The  will  thus  serves,  you  see,  Ben,  to  stay  the 
operation  of  our  instincts  until  the  conscience  has 
sat  in  judgment  on  the  motives  or  consequences 
of  the  contemplated  acts — until,  indeed,  it  has 
pronounced  them  to  be  either  'right  or  wrong,5 
*  prudent  or  imprudent,'  for  us  to  pursue.  Nor 
is  this  all ;  for  when  the  moral  sense  has  duly  de 
liberated  and  determined,  the  will  tends  either  to 
restrain  the  impulse,  if  it  be  thought  bad,  or  else 
to  encourage  it,  by  giving  additional  force  and 
persistence  to  it,  if  considered  to  be  good." 

"  I  can  hardly  follow  you,"  exclaimed  the  youth, 
trying  to  make  it  all  out. 

"  You  remember  the  trouble  you  got  into,  Ben, 
about  reading  c  Robinson  Crusoe  ?'  "  said  his  tu 
tor,  proceeding  to  give  him  an  illustration ;  "  well, 
the  impulse  that  stirred  you  then  to  see  what  the 
shipwrecked  manner  did  in  his  desert  island  was 
but  the  natural  result  of  a  boy's  instinctive  de 
light  in  adventure ;  but  though  to  you,  lad,  the 
propensity  seemed  irresistible,  had  you  brought 
your  will  to  bear  upon  the  matter,  had  you  used 
its  power  to  check  the  operation  of  the  passion 
that  was  on  you  (till  such  time  as  you  had  asked 
your  own  heart  whether  you  ought,  or  even 
whether  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  read  at 
such  a  moment,  in  defiance  of  your  father's  com 
mands),  I  am  quite  sure  now  what  you  would 
have  determined,  or,  in  other  words,  what  you 
would  have  ivilled  to  do." 

The  little  fellow  hung  down  his  head  in  shame 
to  find  the  error  of  his  past  conduct  used  as  an 
illustration  of  the  operation  of  a  mere  instinct,  un- 
guided  and  unrestrained  by  any  superior  princi- 


BECALMED.  Ill 

pic.  "  I  hope  I  shall  act  differently  for  the  future, 
uncle,"  was  all  he  could  stammer  out. 

"Let  it  pass,  lad,  let  it  pass,"  cried  the  old 
man ;  and  accordingly  he  went  on.  "  Now  it  is 
principally  in  this  wonderful  faculty  of  will,  Ben, 
that  man  differs  from  the  rest  of  the  animal  crea 
tion.  The  most  sagacious  dog  never  pauses  to 
reflect  between  its  instincts  and  its  acts,  neither 
does  it  weigh  the  consequences  of  doing  or  not 
doing  this  or  that  thing,  nor  determine  to  act  one 
way  or  the  other,  according  as  the  action  seems 
likely  to  be  beneficial  or  hurtful  to  itself  or  others." 

"  Of  course  it  doesn't,"  interposed  young  Ben. 

"Again,  it  is  will,  my  boy,"  the  uncle  continued, 
"that  makes  the  chief  distinction  between  the 
same  human  being  waking  or  dreaming — in  in 
fancy  or  manhood — in  a  state  of  sanity  or  insani 
ty.  No  one  reproaches  himself  for  his  thoughts 
and  feelings — base  and  savage  as  they  often  are — 
during  either  sleep  or  madness,  because  at  such 
times  we  have  no  more  power  than  in  infancy  to 
deliberate  on  our  impulses  before  giving  way  to 
them;  indeed,  we  have  then  neither  the  sense  to 
judge  whether  they  are  right  or  wrong,  nor  the 
moral  strength  to  encourage  or  restrain  them. 
That  our  will  really  sleeps  during  slumber,  you 
yourself,  Ben,  must  be  convinced,  from  the  fact 
that  in  your  nightmare  dreams  you  are  unable  to 
move  a  limb,  or  even  utter  a  cry  for  your  protec 
tion,  and  that  simply  because  you  have  then  lost 
all  power  over  the  nerves  and  the  muscles  which, 
in  your  waking  moments,  never  fail  to  answer  di 
rectly  to  the  will  that  is  then  aroused  in  you.  It 
is  this  will,  moreover,  that  makes  us  responsible 
for  our  actions  here ;  for  as  we,  unlike  the  other 
animals,  have  been  endowed  with  the  power  to  re 
flect  upon  the  tendency  of  our  impulses — to  see 
and  weigh  the  consequences  of  our  acts,  and  ei- 


112  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

ther  to  foster  the  good  or  reject  the  bad,  why,  it 
is  but  fair  that  our  conduct  in  this  respect  should 
be  judged  both  in  this  world  and  the  next,  my 
little  man." 

"  Oh,  now  I  understand,"  exclaimed  the  youth, 
"what  has  always  appeared  to  me  so  hard  to 
make  out — why  dogs  and  horses  should  not  go 
to  heaven  as  well  as  ourselves  !  They  have  only 
instinct  to  guide  them — isn't  it  so,  uncle  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  boy,"  nodded  the  preceptor,  "  while 
we  have  conscience  and  will  to  direct  and  sustain 
us.  But  we  mustn't  wander  from  our  object, 
which  was — "  and  the  old  man  paused  to  see  if 
the  lad,  in  the  maze  of  thought  through  which  he 
had  led  him,  could  find  his  way  back  to  the  point 
whence  they  started. 

"  Let  me  see,"  pondered  little  Ben,  "  you  were 
going  to  show  me,  uncle — but  I'm  sure  I  forget 
what  now." 

"  Why,  I  was  going  to  show  you,  lad,  how  will 
or  purpose  makes  work  pleasant.  Well,  then,  my 
boy,  I  must  tell  you — what  would  appear  at  first 
sight  to  be  opposed  to  such  a  result — that,  with 
the  operation  of  the  will,  there  is  generally  con 
nected  a  certain  sense  of  effort,  and  every  effort 
we  make  is  more  or  less  trying  or  irksome  to  us 
to  sustain.  If  you  determine  to  lift  a  heavy 
weight,  lad,  you  know  how  painful  it  is  for  you 
to  exert  your  strength  to  its  utmost,  and  how  in 
tensely  fatiguing  it  is  for  you  to  continue  doing 
so.  Again,  you  remember  how,  with  the  violin,  the 
irksomeness  of  having  to  move  each  finger  by  an 
express  effort  of  your  will  at  each  different  note 
soon  made  you  grow  weary  of  the  task.  With 
the  operations  of  instinct,  however,  there  seems  to 
be  little  or  no  fatigue  associated.  The  albatross, 
that  is  met  with  hovering  in  mid-ocean,  far  away 
from  any  land  or  even  a  rock,  seems  never  to  be 


BECALMED.  113 

tired  of  being  on  the  wing;  gnats,  too,  appear  to 
fly  all  the  day  long  ;  and  though  their  wings  beat 
many  times  in  a  second — as  we  know  by  the  mu 
sical  note  they  give  out — the  muscles  that  move 
them  are  apparently  as  insensible  of  fatigue  as 
those  that  stir  our  own  heart." 

"How,  then,  uncle,  can  the  exercise  of  our  will 
be  made  pleasant  to  us,  since,  as  you  say,  there  ia 
always  this  sense  of  effort  and  fatigue  connected 
with  it  ?"  inquired  the  boy,  puzzled  with  the  ap 
parent  contradiction. 

"Why,  lad,"  returned  the  elder  Benjamin, 
"  such  a  result  may  be  brought  about  simply  by 
using  the  will  to  strengthen  the  good  and  virtu 
ous  impulses  of  our  nature,  rather  than  to  control 
the  bad  and  vicious  ones ;  that  is  to  say,  by  mak 
ing  the  will  work  with  us  instead  of  against  us. 
To  do  a  thing  that  we  have  no  natural  inclination 
to  do — to  do  it  merely  because  our  conscience  tells 
us  that  it  is  right — is  to  perform  an  act  of  stern 
duty,  and  duty  always  demands  more  or  less  of 
sacrifice  on  our  part.  At  such  times  there  is  n, 
continual  battle  between  the  animal  and  moral 
parts  of  our  nature ;  the  flesh  struggles  to  go  one 
way,  the  spirit  another ;  force  has  to  be  used 
against  force,  and  hence  a  strong  and  continuous 
effort  is  required  to  sustain  us.  But  our  impulses 
are  not  all  bad,  Ben.  If  our  instincts  would  lead 
us  to  hate  and  persecute  our  enemies,  surely  they 
teach  us  also  to  love  and  benefit  our  family  and 
our  friends ;  if  our  appetites,  lad,  tend  to  make 
beasts  of  us,  at  least  our  sympathy  with  the  suf 
fering  serves  to  give  us  something  of  the  dignity 
of  angels.  The  will,  therefore,  may  be  used  as 
much  to  encourage  and  sustain  our  higher  and 
kindlier  propensities,  as  to  restrain  and  subdue 
our  more  brutal  and  savage  ones.  A  man's  heart 
may  prompt  him  to  good  works  as  well  as  evil ; 
'  FT 


114  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

and  to  will  to  do  the  good,  in  preference  to  the 
evil  which  our  heart  desires,  is  at  once  to  work 
with  all  the  heart  and  with  all  the  soul  as  well." 

"I  think  I  begin  to  see  what  you  mean  now, 
uncle,"  young  Benjamin  murmured  half  to  him 
self. 

"  There  is  no  finer  instance  of  the  untiring  en 
ergy  of  the  will,  my  boy,  when  working  in  unison 
with  the  heart,"  the  old  man  continued ;  "  no  moro 
striking  example  of  its  Avondrous  power  at  such 
times  to  render  even  the  heaviest  labor  light  and 
pleasant  to  us,  as  well  as  to  support  us  through 
trials,  by  giving  us  a  capacity  of  endurance  that 
seems  to  be  almost  insensible  to  suffering  and  fa 
tigue,  than  is  to  be  found  in  the  career  of  Peter, 
the  present  Emperor  of  Russia." 

Young  Benjamin  had  heard  his  father  and  the 
chapel  deacons,  who  often  "  dropped  in"  to  con 
verse  with  Josiah  in  the  evening,  refer  occasion 
ally,  in  the  course  of  their  political  discussions,  to 
the  Russian  monarch  as  the  royal  wonder  of  their 
time  ;  but  as  yet  the  boy  had  been  unable  to 
gather  more  than  that  this  same  Peter  was  a  king 
who  had  worked  as  a  common  shipwright  some 
where. 

The  mere  mention  of  the  great  man's  name, 
therefore,  was  sufficient  to  rouse  the  youngster 
from  the  seat  on  which  he  had  been  reclining  at 
full  length  while  listening  to  the  "  drier  parts"  of 
his  uncle's  discourse;  so  he  sat  up  on  the  bench, 
with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  and  his  chin 
pillowed  on  his  palms,  while  he  gazed  intently  in 
his  uncle's  face,  eagerly  waiting  for  the  story  he 
had  to  tell. 

"  At  ten  years  of  age,  lad,"  the  old  man  began, 
"  Peter  came  to  the  crown  of  Russia ;  but  the 
Queen-regent  Sophia,  who  was  his  half-sister, 
strove  to  keep  him  as  ignorant  as  she  could,  as 


BECALMED.  115 

well  as  to  make  him  idle  and  sensual,  by  placing 
tbe  most  debasing  temptations  in  his  way,  and 
withholding  from  him  all  means  of  instruction  and 
refinement.  The  queen-regent  did  this  not  only 
to  keep  her  brother  from  the  throne  as  long  as 
possible,  but  to  render  him  utterly  unfit  for  the 
exercise  of  royal  power.  The  rude,  ignorant,  and 
self-willed  boy,  however,  was  barely  seventeen  be 
fore  he  burst  through  the  regent's  control,  and 
took  the  reins  of  government  into  his  own  hands. 
Then  he  set  to  work  to  educate  himself,  and  mas 
tered —  entirely  without  tuition,  Ben  —  a  knowl 
edge  of  several  foreign  languages.  He  studied 
also  many  of  the  mechanical  arts ;  for,  boy-king 
as  he  was,  and  unprejudiced  by  the  luxurious 
training  of  a  court,  he  had  too  grand  an  idea  of 
the  dignity  of  labor,  and  too  high  a  sense  of  tho 
value,  even  to  a  monarch,  of  industrial  knowledge, 
to  consider  such  occupations  either  degrading  or 
unfitted  to  him." 

"Wasn't  it  noble  of  him,  uncle  !"  cried  the  en 
thusiastic  little  fellow ;  "  and  how  strange  that  a, 
boy  like  him,  without  any  schooling,  should  have 
such  ideas !" 

"  Peter  had  what  is  even  better  than  education, 
Ben  —  better,  because  it  makes  us  educate  our 
selves,  and  gives  us  a  firm  reliance  on  our  own 
powers,"  Uncle  Benjamin  made  answer. 

"And  what  is  that,  uncle  ?"  inquired  the  simple 
lad. 

"  Why,  can't  you  guess,  can't  you  guess,  my 
clever  little  man  ? — a  strong,  persistent  will,"  was 
the  reply.  "  The  mechanic-king  had  not  only  an 
instinct  that  made  him  conceive  great  things  with 
out  previous  training,  but  a  will  that  gave  him 
zeal  enough  to  undertake  them,  endurance  enough 
to  labor  long  at  them,  and  determined  courage 
enough,  come  what  might,  to  master  them," 


11G  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

"  I  see !  I  see !  I  see !"  exclaimed  the  delighted 
boy,  as  he  still  gazed  straight  in  his  uncle's  eyes ; 
"I  see  that  will  is  the  greatest  power  in  man." 

"  Russia,  when  Peter  came  to  the  throne,"  con 
tinued  the  uncle,  "  possessed  no  sea-port  but  that 
of  Archangel,  on  the  banks  of  the  White  Sea ; 
and  to  give  ships  and  commerce  to  his  country 
soon  became  the  one  absorbing  object  of  the  boy- 
king's  mind.  Before  his  time  the  Russian  people 
were  merely  a  race  of  despised  and  barbarous 
Muscovites  ;  but  hardly  was  the  crown  on  his 
head,  than  the  bold  young  czar  had  determined 
to  create  harbors,  fleets,  trades,  manufactures, 
arts,  and  schools  for  the  nation.  Now  what  would 
you,  Ben,  have  done  under  the  same  circumstances, 
with  such  a  purpose  in  your  brain  ?  Imagine 
yourself  a  king,  boy,  with  almost  infinite  means  at 
your  command,  with  a  palace  for  your  home,  and 
countless  troops  and  serfs  to  do  your  bidding. 
How  would  you  have  set  about  such  an  under 
taking?" 

The  youth  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  idea 
of  his  coming  even  to  an  imaginary  throne ;  and, 
delighted  to  fancy  himself  possessed  of  such  im 
mense  power  in  the  world,  he  cried,  exultingly, 
"  Why,  I  should  have  set  the  people  to  work  upon 
it,  uncle,  immediately." 

"  Of  course  you  would,  like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  lad,"  was  the  rejoinder.  "  But  Peter  was 
no  ordinary  man ;  so,  before  setting  the  people  to 
build  ships  for  him,  he  resolved  to  learn  how  to 
build  them  for  himself.  And  how  do  you  think 
he  learned  the  art,  Ben — by  having  masters  to 
teach  him,  eh  ?" 

The  boy,  ashamed  of  his  previous  mistake,  re 
mained  silent  this  time. 

"Not  he!"  the  uncle  added.  "A  man  of  his 
will  wanted  no  masters,  lad.  King  though  he 


BECALMED.  Ill 

was,  there  was  but  one  way  of  making  himself 
thoroughly  and  practically  acquainted  with  the 
craft,  and  that  was  by  learning  it  as  other  men 
learn  it — by  working  at  it  with  one's  own  hands ; 
and  the  idea  once  formed,  his  was  ,not  the  mind 
to  be  shaken  from  its  object." 

"  Did  he  then  really  labor  as  a  common  ship 
wright,  eh,  uncle  ?"  timidly  inquired  the  youth. 

"Assuredly  he  did,  lad — labor,  and  live  like  a 
common  laborer  too.  His  heart  longed  to  make 
his  country  a  great  commercial  nation,  and  his 
will  gave  him  strength  and  courage  to  accom 
plish  his  purpose,  as  no  monarch  had  ever  done 
before.  With  his  darling  object  deep  in  his 
heart,  King  Peter  traveled  as  a  private  person  to 
the  two  great  maritime  countries  of  the  time, 
first  to  Holland,  then  to  England,  and  worked 
in  the  dock-yards  of  Amsterdam  and  Deptford 
as  an  ordinary  ship-builder,  living  and  faring  like 
his  fellow-mechanics — his  crown  laid  on  one  side 
for  a  paper  cap,  a  flannel  jacket  and  apron  dis 
placing  his  royal  robes." 

Little  Benjamin  could  only  cry,  "How  won 
derful  !  how  grand !"  as  the  story  went  on. 

"  And  was  the  labor  of  such  a  life  drudgery 
to  such  a  man,  think  you,  Ben  ?  No,  lad !  rest 
assured,  no !  Of  all  the  workmen  in  those  dock 
yards,  depend  upon  it,  none  toiled  so  zealously, 
none  with  so  light  a  heart,  so  vigorous  a  hand,  or 
Avith  so  little  sense  of  fatigue,  as  he  who  wielded 
a  hammer  instead  of  a  sceptre.  And  why,  Ben 
jamin,  was  it  so  ?" 

"  Because  he  was  working  with  his  whole  heart, 
as  you  said,  uncle,  and  with  his  whole  soul  too," 
the  boy  exclaimed,  now  fired  with  sufficient  en 
thusiasm  almost  to  have  started  on  the  same  mis 
sion  himself. 

"Just  so,  my  good  little   man,"  nodded  his 


118  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

uncle,  approvingly.  "  He  was  not  laboring  like 
a  mere  animal,  bestirring  himself  only  in  quest 
of  food,  but  a  high  and  noble  purpose  was  fast 
in  his  mind,  a  strong  and  energetic  will  quick 
ening  his  muscles,  and  giving  courage  and  vigor 
to  his  heart.  It  was  the  will  within  him,  lad, 
that  made  the  laborer-king  do  his  work  with 
scarcely  an  effort — this  that  kept  him  to  the  task 
day  after  day,  and  month  after  month,  without 
any  flagging,  and  with  hardly  a  desire  for  rest — 
this  that  made  his  humble  mechanic's  home  hap 
pier  than  a  palace,  and  his  simple  mechanic's  fare 
daintier  than  any  royal  banquet.  So  now,  Ben, 
remember,  that  of  all  the  ways  to  make  labor 
pleasant,  and  even  valuable,  there  is  nothing  like 
having  a  noble  purpose  backed  by  a  noble  will." 
"I  shall  never  forget  it,  uncle — never,"  the 
youth  replied,  solemnly,  as  the  lesson  sank  deep 
into  his  mind ;  "  at  least  so  long  as  I  recollect  the 
stories  of  Columbus  and  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  as 
well  as  that  of  Peter  the  Great." 

The  lesson  ended,  Uncle  Benjamin  began  to 
wake  up,  as  it  were,  to  a  sense  that  he  and  his 
nephew  were  still  miles  away  at  sea,  and  without 
any  apparent  prospect,  too,  of  being  favored  with 
the  promised  breeze  at  sundown. 

"  Come,  I  say,  captain,"  the  uncle  cried,  as  he 
glanced  toward  the  shore,  and  beheld  the  sun 
trembling  like  a  huge  golden  bubble,  as  it  seemed 
to  rest  poised  on  the  very  edge  of  the  distant 
hills,  and  tinting  the  air,  earth,  and  sea  with  a 
blush  that  was  as  faint  and  delicate  as  the  rosy 
lining  of  a  shell;  "come,  I  say,  master,  where's 
your  breeze  at  sundown  ?  I'm  afraid  you're  out 
in  your  reckoning,  my  little  skipper."  Where 
upon  the  couple  looked  again  toward  the  horizon 
in  the  vain  hope  of  discovering  the  slightest  trace 


BECALMED.  1H> 

of  what  sailors  call  a  "  cat's-paw"  on  the  water. 
Neither  was  there  a  single  "  goat's-hair"  nor 
u  mare's-tail"  to  be  seen,  like  whiffs  of  gossamer, 
iloating  in  the  sky ;  for  the  clouds  were  still  gath 
ered  into  those  large  cumulus  snow-clumps  whicli 
are  indicative  of  a  summer  stillness  in  the  air, 
while  the  sea  itself  was  so  calm  and  smooth  that 
it  looked  like  a  broad  pavement  of  glass,  more 
easy  to  be  walked  over  than  sailed  through. 

The  young  skipper  felt  himself  called  upon  to 
give  his  little  breeches  the  true  nautical  hitch  as 
lie  informed  his  alarmed  godfather  that  he  "  real 
ly  didn't  see  what  was  to  be  done  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  except,  indeed,  to  whistle,  for  that 
was  the  remedy  which  the  best  sailors  always 
prescribed  for  a  lack  of  wind." 

"Whistle!"  shouted  Uncle  Benjamin,  as  he 
laughed  outright  at  the  absurd  though  desperate 
predicament  in  whicli  they  were  placed ;  "  and  is 
that  the  result  of  all  my  long  moral  lessons  to  you 
this  day,  you  young  monkey?"  and  as  he  said 
the  words  he  seized  the  lad  and  shook  him  play 
fully  by  the  ear.  "Have  I  been  out  with  you 
here  ever  since  the  morning,  trying  to  hammer 
into  your  little  noddle  that  will  overcomes  all 
difficulties,  and  yet  you  have  faith  now — only  in 
whistling.  Why,  we  may  stop  here  the  night 
through,  and  puff  every  gasp  of  breath  out  of  our 
bodies  before  we  shall  get  wind  enough  that  way, 
you  superstitious  young  rascal  you  (and  again  he 
twiddled  at  the  boy's  ear),  to  drive  even  a  wal 
nut-shell  through  the  water." 

"  Well,  but,  uncle,  it's  impossible  to  pull  all  the 
way  back  to  Boston,"  remonstrated  the  nephew ; 
and,  as  if  to  assure  himself  of  the  fact,  he  cast  a 
despairing  glance  toward  the  coast,  that  now,  as 
the  twilight  fell  like  a  thick  haze  over  the  water, 
appeared  even  dimmer  and  more  distant  than 
before. 


1-20  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

"And  you  assert  that  as  your  deliberate  opin 
ion,  eh,  captain  ?"  smiled  the  old  man,  as  he 
bowed  with  mock  deference  to  the  youngster. 

"It  certainly  seems  to  me  impossible,"  little 
Benjamin  made  answer,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoul 
ders  expressive  of  utter  helplessness  under  the 
circumstances. 

"  I  can  only  say,  then,  that  I'm  vastly  glad  to 
hear  it,  Master  Ben,"  answered  the  uncle,  chafing 
his  palms  together  with  pretended  delight,  "  be 
cause  the  very  predicament  we're  in  will  afford 
you  the  finest  possible  opportunity  of  proving,  in 
a  practical  manner,  the  power  of  the  will  in  you  ; 
and  you'll  learn  from  it,  moreover,  my  lad,  how 
it's  much  better  to  depend  on  that  than  on  any 
power  of  whistling  in  such  a  position." 

"  But,  uncle,  it's  eight  miles  to  Boston  Harbor 
if  it's  an  oar's  length,"  remonstrated  the  faint 
hearted  youngster. 

"  Never  mind,  boy.  If  it  were  twenty,  but  will 
to  master  the  distance,  and  you'll  find  it  only  a 
hop,  skip,  and  a  jump  after  all.  Come,  lad !" 
cried  the  old  man,  slapping  the  little  fellow  on 
the  back  to  rouse  his  dormant  energy.  "Have 
faith  in  your  own  powers — have  faith,  Ben,  for 
without  faith  there  are  no  good  works,  I  can  tell 
you.  It's  easier,  any  how,  to  scull  a  boat  than 
to  build  ships.  Peter  had  the  welfare  only  of  his 
country  to  stir  him  to  do  what  he  did,  but  you 
have  father  and  mother  to  make  happy  by  your 
brave  deeds.  Set  your  heart  on  home,  boy,  and 
your  hands  will  bring  you  there  fast  and  readily 
enough.  Have  you  no  purpose  to  lighten  the  la 
bor?  Is  there  no  distant  glory  to  rouse  in  you 
will  enough  to  sustain  you  at  the  work  ?  Will 
it  be  no  delight  to  your  parents  to  find  that  you 
can  be  a  fine,  noble  fellow  if  you  please  ?  that  you 
have  a  man's  purpose  now  in  your  heart,  and  a 


BECALMED.  121 

man's  will  in  your  soul?  that  you  have  no  longer 
such  a  childish  dread  of  continuous  toil  as  to  be 
cowed  by  a  few  ugly-looking  difficulties.  Let 
them  see  that  you  are  ready  to  fight  the  battle 
of  life  with  a  courage  that  can  never  waver ;  a 
resolution  strong  enough  to  change  defeat  into 
triumph ;  an  energy  sufficiently  enduring  to  make 
you  compass  what  you  set  your  heart  upon? 
Think  of  this,  my  little  man,  think  of  this,  and 
Avork  to  gladden  father  and  mother,  as  King  Pe 
ter  worked  to  benefit  a  nation." 

"  I'll  do  it !  I'll  do  it,  uncle !  You  shall  see  to 
night  what  a  man  you  have  made  of  me.  Ay, 
rind  father  and  mother  shall  see  it  too."  And, 
without  another  word,  the  little  fellow  proceeded 
to  lower  the  sail,  and  then  stripping  off  his  coat, 
he  seized  the  sculls,  and  began  to  give  way  in 
right  good  earnest. 

By  this  time  the  lights  of  Boston  city  in  the 
distance  had  come  twinkling  forth  one  after  an 
other,  as  if  they  had  been  so  many  stars  peeping 
over  the  horizon ;  and  as  the  boy  labored  at  the 
oars,  the  uncle  cheered  him  on  by  reminding  him 
of  the  moving  lights  that  Columbus  had  seen  on 
the  shore  in  the  night,  as  he  sat  on  the  poop  of 
the  "  Santa  Maria,"  and  he  bade  him  have  the 
same  will  to  reach  those  shores  as  had  sustained 
Columbus  himself. 

Next  he  would  tell  the  lad  how  John  Huss,  the 
martyr,  had  willed  to  die  for  the  truth,  and  how 
the  brave  Bohemian  had  chanted  hymns  at  the 
stake  while  the  flames  were  curling  about  his 
body.  Then  he  wrould  recount  to  him  the  story 
of  Palissy  the  potter,  explaining  to  "him  that  Pa- 
lissy  was  the  discoverer  of  the  means  of  glazing 
earthenware — our  cups,  plates  and  dishes  before 
his  time  having  been  as  rude  and  rough  as  tiles — 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

and  that  so  determined  had  he  been  to  succeed 
in  his  object,  that  he  not  only  broke  up  the  very 
bedsteads  of  his  wife  and  children  for  fuel  for  his 
furnaces,  but  burnt  the  flooring  and  rafters  of  the 
house  they  lived  in ;  until,  at  length,  the  potter 
mastered  all  the  difficulties  that  beset  him,  and 
realized  an  immense  fortune  by  the  discovery. 

When,  too,  Uncle  Benjamin  fancied  he  could 
see  the  little  fellow's  spirit  or  strength  beginning 
to  flag,  he  would  cry  aloud  to  him,  "  Pull,  lad"! 
pull  as  King  Peter  would  have  pulled  under  the 
»ame  circumstances ;"  or  else  the  old  uncle  would 
make  the  little  fellow  laugh  by  telling  him  that 
he  himself  would  try  to  help  him,  but  he  knew  he 
should  "  catch  a  crab"  the  very  first  stroke,  and 
be  hurled  backward  over  the  seat  into  the  bottom 
of  the  boat. 

Then,  these  resources  being  exhausted,  the  old 
man  tried  to  beguile  the  way  to  the  boy  first  by 
chanting  hymns,  afterward  by  reciting  portions 
of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  next  by  telling  him  sto 
ries  about  John  Milton,  the  great  Non-conformist. 

It  was,  however,  hard  work  enough  for  the  lit 
tle  fellow  to  hold  on  ;  and,  had  not  the  tide  been 
flowing,  he  must  have  given  in  or  dropped  before 
half  of  the  distance  had  been  traveled. 

Nevertheless,  the  boy  labored  on  and  on,  reso 
lute  in  accomplishing  the  task.  Indeed,  his  pride 
increased  rather  than  flagged  as  he  drew  nearer 
to  the  harbor  lights,  so  that  wrhen  his  uncle  urged 
him  to  rest  on  his  oars  for  a  while,  he  scorned  to 
listen  to  the  suggestion,  and  fell  to  with  redoubled 
vigor. 

Still,  the  last  half  mile  was  ail-but  more  than 
little  Benjamin  could  manage.  His  hands  wrere 
smarting  with  blisters,  and  the  muscles  of  his  arms 
and  back  aching  with  their  long  exertion.  Many 
a  time  he  thought  he  must  drop  the  sculls.  Nev- 


A  strong  will  can  master  difficulties  which  seem  insuperable  to  a  weak  heart. 


A    NEW    WORLD.  r:5 

ertheless,  he  could  not  bear  to  be  beaten  after  all 
he  had  done ;  so  on  he  went  again,  looking  round 
almost  at  every  other  stroke  to  note  how  much 
farther  he  had  to  go. 

Then  the  old  man,  seeing  the  struggle  of  the 
poor  boy,  fell  to  cheering  him,  first  clapping  his 
hands  and  crying  "  Bravo  !  bravo,  captain  !"  and 
then  calling  him  "  Peter  the  Little"  and  "  young 
Master  Cristofaro,"  till  the  little  fellow  was 
obliged  to  laugh  even  in  his  pain.  And  after  that 
he  told  him  to  think  of  the  grand  story  he  should 
have  to  tell  his  father  and  mother,  on  reaching 
home,  about  his  young  friend  Captain  Benjamin 
Franklin,  as  to  how  he  had  saved  his  old  uncle  by 
his  great  courage  and  energy,  as  well  as  fine  sea 
manship,  from  being  drifted  out  of  sight  of  land  at 
nightfall  without  either  provisions  or  water. 

Thus,  at  last,  the  harbor  was  gained. 

And  when  the  little  hero  stepped  from  the  boat 
on  to  the  landing-place,  he  felt,  though  his  arms 
were  cramped  with  the  long  labor,  that  he  was 
really  a  new  man ;  that  he  had  learned  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  to  have  faith  in  his  own  en 
ergies,  and  had  found  out  by  experience  that  a 
strong  will  can  master  difficulties  which,  seem  in 
superable  to  a  weak  heart. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  NEW   WORLD. 

"  IIoi,  Ben,  hoi !  we'll  stop  here,  lad !  stop,  you 
wild  young  jackanapes — stop,  I  say !"  shouted  the 
uncle  through  his  hands  to  his  young  fellow-trav 
eler,  who  had  started  on  ahead,  as  they  burst  from 
out  the  dusk  of  a  dense  wood  into  the  bright  sun 
shine  of  a  vast  open  plain. 


126  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

The  long,  luxuriant  grass  of  the  broad  meadows 
before  them  reached  so  high  above  the  belly  of 
the  shock-coated  pony  young  Benjamin  was  rid 
ing,  that  the  little  porpoise-like  animal  positively 
seemed  to  be  swimming  along  in  a  sea  of  verdure. 
However,  in  obedience  to  the  summons,  the  boy 
leaned  back  on  the  saddle,  like  a  rower  in  his  seat, 
as  he  tugged  at  the  creature's  mouth,  and  cried 
aloud,  "  What,  stop  here,  uncle — stop  here  /" 

Then  wheeling  round,  he  galloped  back  to  the 
old  man,  and  found  him  already  hanging  over  the 
saddle  in  the  act  of  dismounting.  The  undo 
paused  for  a  moment  with  one  foot  in  the  stirrup ; 
and  as  he  looked  across  the  pommel  at  the  fea 
tures  of  the  disappointed  lad,  he  could  hardly 
keep  from  laughing  on  beholding  his  godson's 
face  all  lengthened  out  with  wonder  almost  as 
extravagantly  as  if  it  had  been  reflected  in  the 
bowl  of  a  teaspoon. 

"  Stop  here  /"  iterated  the  amazed  young  Ben 
jamin.  "  Why,  there  isn't  a  house  for  miles 
round ;  just  you  look  yourself,  uncle ;  you  can't 
see  a  curl  of  smoke  any  where  about — can  you, 
now  ?"  And  the  youth  leaned  his  hand  upon  the 
crupper,  while  he  turned  himself  sideways  on  his 
saddle  to  look  well  back  upon  the  scene. 

"  I  know,  boy,  there  is  not  a  homestead  nearer 
than  a  day's  ride,"  answered  the  godfather,  still 
inwardly  enjoying  the  fun  of  the  boy's  bewilder 
ment,  and  patting  on  the  shoulder,  now  that  he 
was  fairly  dismounted,  the  old  "  nag-horse"  that 
had  borne  him  from  St.  Louis  that  morning. 
"  Nevertheless,  this  is  our  journey's  end,  Master 
Benjamin." 

"Tliis  our  journey's  end!  Well,  well!"  the 
youth  exclaimed,  in  greater  amazement  than  ever, 
as  he  tossed  up  his  head  like  a  horse  with  a  half- 
empty  nose-bag ;  and  then  drawing  one  foot  from 


A    NEW    WORLD.  127 

the  stirrup,  he  screwed  himself  round  once  more 
on  the  saddle  as  upon  a  pivot,  so  as  to  take  an 
other  good  broad  survey  of  the  country.  "  Why, 
I  thought  you  were  going  to  show  me  some  large 
town  or  other,  uncle — or  some  great  shipping 
place — or  grand  farm,  perhaps ;  but  what  your 
object  can  be  in  bringing  me  out  here  to  an  im 
mense  wilderness  in  the  back-woods,  I'm  sure  ] 
can't  tell ;"  and  the  half-sulky  lad  flung  himself 
off  his  pony,  and  stood  almost  up  to  his  middle  in 
the  grass. 

Then,  by  way  of  consolation,  he  proceeded  to 
hug  the  shaggy  little  steed  round  the  neck,  call 
ing  him  the  while  his  "  darling  Jacky,"  and  "  a 
beauty,"  and  telling  the  tiny  creature,  as  he  cud 
dled  and  caressed  it  like  a  human  being,  "how 
happy  he  would  be  if  Jacky  only  belonged  to 
him,  instead  of  the  French  farmer  they  had  bor 
rowed  it  from." 

"  Patience,  my  little  philosopher,  patience.  You 
shall  know  all  in  good  time,"  was  the  simple  re 
buke  of  the  godfather  while  slipping  the  bridle 
from  his  nag  previous  to  turning  him  adrift  in 
the  herbage,  that  was  almost  as  high  as  corn. 

Little  Benjamin  proceeded  to  follow  the  old 
man's  example,  and,  having  divested  Jacky  of 
his  head-gear,  he  advanced  toward  his  uncle  with 
the  bit  dangling  from  his  hand.  Then,  as  the  lad 
stood  on  tiptoe  beside  a  neighboring  tree,  trying 
to  hang  the  bridle  on  the  same  branch  as  his  god 
father  had  used  for  the  same  purpose,  he  exclaim 
ed,  "  But,  uncle,  you  must  allow  I've  had  a  good 
bit  of  patience  already.  Why,  let  me  see,  we've 
been  away  from  home  now"  (and  he  paused  to 
make  a  mental  calculation  of  the  precise  time) — 
"  yes !  more  than  three  weeks,  I  declare ;  and 
though  I  did  worry  you,  perhaps,  a  good  deal  at 
first — when  we  were  in  the  sloop,  you  know,  on 


128  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

our  way  from  Boston  to  Annapolis — as  to  where 
you  were  going  to  take  me,  and  why  we  were 
coming  so  far  away  from  home,  still,  you  remem 
ber,  when  I  found  you  wouldn't  tell  me  any  thing 
about  it,  but  bade  me  have  a  little  patience,  as  you 
do  now,  why,  I  never  said  another  word  to  you 
on  the  matter,  though  I  must  confess  I  couldn't 
keep  from  twisting  it  over  and  over  in  my  mind 
all  the  time  we  were  in  that  strange-looking  old 
stage-wagon  traveling  over  the  Alleghany  Mount 
ains  to  Pittsburg,  and  that  was,  many  days — 
wasn't  it  uncle,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes,  you  monkey  !  but  you  made  up  for  it 
well — that  you  did — on  board  the  'ark'  that  we 
came  down  the  Ohio  in,"  responded  the  tutor,  as 
he  shook  his  forefinger  playfully  in  the  face  of 
the  laughing  lad  ;  "  for  then  not  a  town  appeared 
in  sight  but  it  was,  'Are  we  going  to  stop  here, 
uncle  ?'  '  Is  this  the  place  you  wanted  me  to  see, 
uncle  ?'  '  How  long  will  it  be  before  we  get  to 
our  journey's  end,  uncle  ?'  "  What  are  you  going 
to  show  me  this  time,  uncle  ?'  and  a  thousand  and 
one  other  knagging  questions  that  would  have 
given  poor  old  Job  himself  an  attack  of  the  bile." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  I  did  tease  you  a  bit,  poor 
unky,"  replied  the  wheedling  little  fellow,  as  he 
sat  down  on  the  grass  beside  his  godfather,  and 
curled  his  arm  about  his  neck,  while,  half  abash 
ed,  he  leaned  his  head  upon  the  old  one's  shoul 
der  ;  "  but  you  should  remember  I'm  only  '  a  bit 
of  a  boy'  still,  as  mother  says.  Besides,  you  have 
such  a  strange  way  of  teaching  me  things,  you 
know  —  so  different  from  old  Mr.  Brown  well ; 
though  I  am  sure  he  was  kind  enough  to  all  of 
us  boys  in  the  school.  First,  you  take  me  out 
fishing;  then  we  go  boating  together ;  and  though 
I  fancied  each  time  you  meant  merely  to  treat  me 
to  a  day's  pleasure,  I  found  out  afterward  that 


A    NEW    WORLD.  12» 

you  had  planned  the  trip  only  on  purpose  to  give 
me  some  lesson  in  life." 

"  Yes,  my  dear  lad,"  said  the  kind-hearted  old 
gentleman,  while  passing  his  hand  over  the  cheek 
of  his  young  pupil,  "  I  turned  your  recreations 
into  matters  of  study.  I  used  your  boyish  sports 
as  a  means  to  show  you  what  is  a  man's  business 
in  the  world.  Children  remember  their  nursery 
rhymes  better  than  their  catechism,  Ben,  because 
the  lesson  is  pleasanter ;  and  when  the  heart  is  in 
the  work,  the  task,  you  know  now,  lad — " 

"  Is  always  lightened,"  promptly  replied  the  lit 
tle  fellow.  "  I  recollect,  uncle,  it  was  that  which 
made  the  hard  labor  of  the  dock-yard  come  so 
easy  to  Peter  the  Great.  But  still,  unky,  dear,  I 
really  can't  see  what  there  is  to  be  learned  in 
such  a  place  as  this."  (The  old  man  shook  his 
head  as  he  smiled  at  the  boy's  frankness.)  "  You 
said  you  were  going  to  teach  me  how  to  get  on 
in  life,  but  what  can  I  possibly  learn  of  the  ways 
of  the  world  in  a  part  that  seems  to  be  almost  out 
of  it  —  where  there  are  no  towns,  no  farms,  no 
crops,  no  workshops,  no  shipping  —  nothing,  in 
deed,  but  the  tracks  of  wild  Indians,  wild  birds, 
and  wild  cattle  ?" 

"I  dare  say,  my  little  man,  it  does  seem  strange 
to  you,"  replied  the  uncle,  "  and  doubtlessly  it 
will  seem  much  stranger  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
have  brought  you  all  this  long  way  from  home — 
many  hundreds  of  miles — to  this  vast  uninhabited 
plain  to  teach  you — 

"  What  ?"  cried  the  eager  boy,  unable  to  wait 
for  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence. 

"  How  to  be  rich,  my  son,"  was  all  the  reply. 

"  How  to  be  rich  !"  cried  the  youth,  even  more 
bewildered  than  ever.  "How  to  be  rich!  Oh, 
I  should  like  to  know  about  that,  uncle,  very 
much ;"  and,  boy-like,  he  chuckled  with  delight  at 


130  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

the  prospect  of  getting  plenty  of  money.  "  But, 
dear  me !  this  is  an  odd  kind  of  place  to  come  to 
for  such  a  lesson.  Why,  there  are  no  riches  at  all 
here  that  I  can  see  —  nothing  but  a  great  barren 
plain  for  miles  and  miles  on." 

"  Barren  do  you  call  it,  you  rogue !"  echoed  the 
tutor,  still  amusing  himself  with  the  perplexity  of 
his  pupil. 

"  Well,  uncle,  there  is  no  corn  growing,  nor 
any  turnip-fields,  nor  kitchen-gardens,  nor  any  or 
chards  either  that  I  can  see,"  explained  young  Ben. 

"  True,  lad,"  replied  the  other,  as  he  proceeded 
to  spread  out  on  the  grass  before  him  the  packet 
of  venison-hams  and  bread  that  he  had  brought 
from  St.  Louis  for  their  gipsy  dinner  that  day ; 
"  but,  uncultured  as  it  is,  the  finest  English  park, 
laid  out  with  the  nicest  taste,  and  kept  with  the 
greatest  care,  is  not  more  beautiful ;  no  farm,  how 
ever  well  tilled,  has  soil  so  rich  as  that  beneath 
our  feet ;  no  meadows  in  the  world  are  flocked 
with  finer  herds  of  cattle,  or  carpeted  with  a  rich 
er  sward ;  no  plantation  is  set  with  nobler  trees 
or  greener  shrubs ;  no  squire's  preserves  in  the 
old  country  are  more  abundant  in  game ;  no  flor 
ist's  garden  is  studded  with  such  a  choice  profu 
sion  of  flowers  as  you  behold  here,  spangling  the 
earth  as  thick  as  stars  in  the  Milky  Way;  nor  is 
any  orchard  better  stocked  with  fruit,  for  yonder 
you  see  it  dangles,  as  in  Aladdin's  wonderful  gar 
den,  like  balls  of  gold  and  big  jewels  from  the 
boughs. 

"  This  is  an  American  prairie,  lad !"  the  old 
man  went  on — "  one  of  God's  own  parks — crea 
tion's  broad  manor,  of  winch  every  man  in  a  prim 
itive  state  is  '  lord' — the  noble  estate  which  Na 
ture  entails  on  her  barbarian  children.  Yonder 
are  the  beeves  and  the  venison  with  which  she 
welcomes  her  helpless  offspring  on  their  entry 


A    NEW    WORLD.  131 

into  the  world ;  here  the  fruits  with  which  she 
strews  their  board  before  they  have  learned  to 
grow  them  for  themselves;  this  the  soft  velvet 
carpet  that  she  spreads  for  her  barefooted  sons, 
and  these  the  flowers  which  she  hangs,  like  bright 
beads  and  bells,  about  the  cradles  of  her  first 
born." 

Young  Benjamin  had  never  seen  a  prairie  be 
fore.  He  had  often  read  of  the  immense  Ameri 
can  plains,  and  often  heard  of  them,  too,  from  the 
neighbors  and  deacons  who  came  to  chat  at  his 
father's  house  in  the  evening;  he.  had  heard  of 
them  also  from  his  companions  at  school,  while 
telling  one  another  stories  of  the  wild  Indians 
and  the  wonders  of  the  new  country ;  and  from 
his  brother-in-law,  "  the  trader  in  furs  and  skins," 
as  well  as  from  the  sailors  and  mates  whose  ac 
quaintance  he  had  picked  up  at  the  Boston  harbor. 

Boy-like,  he  had  often  longed  to  learn  whether 
the  reality  in  any  way  resembled  the  imaginary 
picture  that  repeated  descriptions  had  conjured 
up  in  his  mind.  Up  to  this  time  he  had  seen  the 
great  plains  only,  as  it  were,  in  a  dream — like  the 
image  of  a  magic  lantern  gloaming  faintly  in  the 
dark;  and  now  that  the  vast  tracts  themselves 
were  spread  before  his  eyes  in  all  the  vividness 
of  sunshine,  he  was  so  intent  upon  learning  his 
uncle's  object  in  bringing  him  thus  far  from  home, 
that,  until  the  witching  word  "  prairie"  fell  from 
the  old  man's  lips,  the  little  fellow  had  no  sense 
that  he  was  gazing  upon  the  grand  Indian  hunt 
ing-grounds  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 

But  now  the  lad  began  to  look  upon  them  with 
different  eyes,  and  grew  eager  to  detect  the  many 
natural  charms  of  which  he  had  heard  and  read. 

As  he  glanced  fitfully  from  spot  to  spot,  he 
noted  the  several  clumps  of  trees  rising  like  wood 
land  islets  out  of  the  boundless  ocean  of  verdure 


132  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

which  surrounded  them ;  the  long,  luxuriant  grass 
undulating  in  the  breeze  with  waves  that  rolled 
across  the  plain  as  if  it  were  one  vast  liquid  lawn, 
and  that  kept  playing  in  the  light  with  all  the 
rich,  soft  shades  of  moving  velvet ;  and  the  gen 
tly  swelling  land  heaving  here  and  there  in  long, 
sweeping  curves,  like  the  sea  in  the  lazy  languor 
of  a  calm  after  a  summer  storm. 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  the  earth  was 
one  immense  floor  of  meadows,  vast  as  a  desert, 
and  yet  rich  as  a  garden,  and  planted  like  a  park. 
The  broad  land  was  like  an  endless  lake  of  fields 
rather  than  the  earth,  as  we  ordinarily  know  it 
broken  into  small  patches,  and  hemmed  in  by  hills 
and  hedges.  The  prairies  were  a-flame  with  the 
myriads  of  bright-colored  wild  flowers  that  scin 
tillated,  as  so  many  sparks  of  fire,  in  the  waving 
grass,  amid  which  the  yellow  helianthus  bloomed 
so  luxuriantly  that  it  threw  a  bright  amber  tint 
over  the  entire  plains,  and  made  them  seem,  at  a 
•little  distance  off",  as  gorgeous  as  a  natural  field 
of  cloth  of  gold. 

The  prairie  flowers,  indeed,  were  of  every  scent 
arid  hue  ;  there  were  the  rich  prairie  violets  pur 
pling  the  soil  in  positive  masses  of  color,  and  per 
fuming  the  air  with  luxurious  daintiness ;  the  wild 
bean-flowers  fluttering  in  the  breeze  like  floral 
butterflies,  and  scattering,  as  they  swung  to  and 
fro,  a  delicate  odor  of  vanilla  nil  around  ;  the  balls 
of  white  clover,  shaped  like  fairy  Guelder  roses, 
filling  the  atmosphere  with  a  honeyed  fragrance ; 
the  slender  rushes  of  the  wild  lavender,  like  little 
blue  ears  of  corn,  nodding  redolently  amid  the 
blades  ;  the  daisy-like  chamomile  flowers,  twink 
ling  as  though  they  were  a  galaxy  of  silver  stars 
in  the  grass.  In  sooth,  the  rich  soil  was  so  preg 
nant  with  sweetness  here  that,  at  every  tread  of 
the  foot,  the  fragrance  of  the  crushed  flowers — 


A   NEW   WORLD.  133 

of  all  the  infinite  variety  of  little  scented  herbs — 
steamed  up  in  rich  gusts,  and  mingled  with  the 
other  odors,  till  the  exquisite  interblending  of  the 
several  shades  and  grades  of  redolence  made  the 
air  seem  to  be  filled  with  a  very  rainbow  of  per 
fumes. 

Nor  was  the  feast  of  color  less  gorgeous.  The 
Avaxen-stemmed  balsams  were  of  every  hue,  and 
looked  like  hundreds  of  little  elfin  Maypoles  gar 
landed  with  many-colored  roses ;  the  foxglove, 
with  its  long  stalk  hung  with  bright  purple  bells ; 
the  glowing  crimson  cups  of  the  monster  cactus- 
blossoms,  dazzling  as  heaps  of  burning  coal ;  the 
vivid  amber  tufts  of  the  clustering  honeysuckle — 
all  made  the  earth  sparkle  with  the  brilliant  tints 
of  the  kaleidoscope,  and  look  as  rich,  with  its 
hundred  hues,  as  the  marigold  window  of  some 
ancient  cathedral. 

Then  the  prairie  trees  had  a  grandeur  and  a 
beauty  unknown  to  other  parts.  Now  they  grew 
in  circular  clumps,  and  seemed  like  a  broad  tower 
of  foliage  springing  from  the  soil.  Here  flourish 
ed  the  gaudy  tulip-tree,  with  its  huge  flowers, 
glowing  among  the  leaves  bright  as  the  tinted 
lamps  upon  a  mimic  Luther's-tree ;  there  was  seen 
the  stately  cotton-tree,  graceful  as  a  Corinthian 
column,  with  the  trumpet-flower  twining  up  its 
stem,  and  the  big  scarlet  blossoms  swinging,  like 
bells  of  red  coral,  in  the  air.  The  Judas-tree  was 
there  too,  with  its  gorgeous  hues  ;  and  the  carne- 
lian  cherry-tree,  with  its  yellow  parachute-shaped 
flowers,  and  the  red  balls  of  fruit  dangling  beneath 
them ;  and  the  beaver-wood  as  well,  with  its  long, 
glossy,  laurel-like  leaves  and  its  blush-white  wax 
en  petals ;  and  the  papaw-tree,  with  its  tall  naked 
stem,  spreading  like  a  palm  at  the  top,  and  its 
orange-colored  custard  apples,  like  balls  of  gold, 
pendent  from  the  blossoms.  And  besides  these 


134  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

there  were  oak,  and  chestnuts,  and  sycamores,  and 
black  walnuts, and  cypresses,  and  cucumber-trees, 
and  locust-trees,  sometimes  growing  singly,  and 
at  others  forming  a  copse  or  grove,  or  else  fring 
ing  the  banks  of  some  narrow  stream  that  trav 
ersed  the  great  plain. 

The  wild  fruits,  again,  were  as  luxuriant  as 
the  wild  flowers  themselves.  There  were  prairie 
plums,  and  wild  grapes,  and  wild  strawberries, 
and  gooseberries,  and  hazel-nuts,  and  mulberries, 
and,  indeed,  a  hundred  other  forest  dainties,  that 
were  rotting  for  want  of  the  hand  to  pluck  them. 

Moreover,  to  complete  the  feast,  there  were 
wild-fowl  forever  flitting  in  long  processions 
through  the  air.  Now  there  would  come  a  flock 
of  wild  turkeys  sweeping  overhead  ;  then  a  cloud 
of  wild  pigeons,  thick  as  migrating  swallows, 
would  shadow  the  plain ;  and  these  would  be  suc 
ceeded  in  a  while  by  troops  of  long-necked  geese 
upon  the  wing,  or  long-legged  cranes,  or  huge 
wild  swans,  or  else  a  dark  multitude  of  wild  ducks, 
or  other  water-fowl. 

Farther,  the  plains  themselves  were  dappled 
with  herds  of  wild  cattle.  Far  in  the  distance  a 
black  mass  of  buffaloes  might  be  seen  cropping 
the  luxuriant  herbage.  Nearer,  the  deer,  startled 
by  the  howl  of  the  prairie  dog,  rushed,  swift  as  a 
sheaf  of  rockets,  across  the  scene. 

In  one  part  were  wild  horses,  thick  as  at  a  fair, 
grazing  together ;  in  another,  a  group  of  long- 
billed  pelicans  wading  in  the  crossing  streamlet. 

Nor  was  the  lavish  luxuriance  of  the  prairie 
land  to  be  wondered  at,  situate  as  it  was  on  the 
banks  and  near  the  mouths  of  the  mightiest  riv 
ers  in  the  world ;  for  the  soil  of  which  the  great 
plains  had  been  formed  had  been  worn  from 
mountains  and  valleys,  abraded  from  rocks  and 
banks  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  miles  away,  and 


HOW   TO    BE   RICH.  135 

this  had  been  washed  and  levigated  by  the  wa 
ters  that  carried  it  down  till  the  finer  particles 
alone  remained  suspended  in  the  current,  so  that 
the  soft  fat  "  silt"  had  been  deposited  there  in 
atoms  as  minute  as  if  myriads  of  ants  had  borne 
it  thither  for  thousands  of  years.  And  thus  the 
plains  had  grown  and  grown,  layer  by  layer,  and 
acre  by  acre,  flood  after  flood,  from  the  very  start 
ing-point  of  time  itself,  till  the  alluvial  soil  had 
become  rich  and  black  as  a  bride-cake,  broad  as  a 
desert,  and  deep  as  a  lake. 

And  yet  no  human  habitation  was  to  be  seen 
amid  all  this  spontaneous  luxuriance.  The  patch 
es  of  burnt  grass,  and  the  litter  of  bleached  bones 
here  and  there,  told  of  some  passing  Indian  camp ; 
but  beyond  these  there  was  no  sign  of  man's  pres 
ence,  as  if  the  Lord  of  the  Creation  had  yet  to 
take  possession  of  his  richest  manor,  for  "  there 
was  not  a  man  to  till  the  ground"  throughout  the 
Eden  of  the  New  World. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

HOW  TO   BE   RICH. 

As  young  Benjamin  sat  munching  his  venison- 
ham  on  the  grass,  with  the  great  prairie  stretch 
ing  far  and  wide  before  him,  he  noted  one  after 
another  the  various  phenomena  of  the  scene. 
First  his  eyes  would  be  riveted  for  a  moment 
upon  the  endless  string  of  wild-fowl  sailing  like 
a  winged  fleet  overhead ;  then  he  would  watch 
some  antlered  elk  that  stood  by  itself  staring  into 
the  distance ;  next  he  would  be  taken  with  the 
bright  balls  of  custard  apples  dangling  from  the 
trees ;  and  the  moment  after  he  was  plucking  a 
bunch  of  the  prairie  violets,  whose  perfume  came 


136  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

steaming  up  from  the  earth  beside  him,  or  else  he 
was  chewing  a  cud  of  the  honeyed  clover  at  his 
feet. 

Presently  he  would  be  up  and  hurrying  off  to 
gather  the  wild  plums  that  his  uncle  had  direct 
ed  his  attention  to  ;  and  the  next  minute  he'd 
come  tearing  back  from  the  copse  with  his  little 
three-cornered  hat  full  of  the  fruit,  together  with 
bunches  of  hazel-nuts  and  grapes,  and  with  pen 
dents  ofcarnelian  cherries  dangling  from  his  ears, 
as  well  as  a  huge  tulip-flower,  almost  as  big  as  a 
golden  goblet,  stuck  in  his  button-hole. 

The  uncle,  however,  in  the  brief  intervals  be 
tween  the  boy's  flightier  moods,  pointed  out  to 
him  such  of  the  more  latent  beauties  connected 
with  the  scene  as  might  otherwise  have  escaped 
the  youth's  less  observant  eye. 

It  was  a  long  time,  however,  before  the  restless 
lad  was  tired  of  running  after  every  bright  but 
terfly  novelty  of  the  place — long,  indeed,  before 
he  could  be  in  any  way  sobered  down  into  atten 
tion.  The  remains  of  the  Indian  camp  had  to  be 
explored ;  the  papaw-tree  to  be  half  climbed ;  the 
deer  to  be  scared,  in  the  vain  hope  of  feeding 
them ;  the  wild  ducks  to  be  pelted  in  the  air,  in 
his  eagerness  to  take  a  brace  back  home  with 
him  ;  the  tumulus,  or  Indian  "  barrow,"  to  be 
scaled ;  Jacky,  the  pony,  to  be  petted  and  fon 
dled  ;  and,  indeed,  a  thousand  and  one  boyish 
freaks  to  be  gone  through,  ere  Uncle  Benjamin 
had  any  chance  of  being  listened  to  for  more 
than  a  minute  or  two  at  a  stretch. 

Nevertheless,  the  uncle  knew  enough  of  human 
nature  to  be  aware  that  a  boy's  excitement  is  like 
summer  lightning  playing  for  a  time  in  harmless 
fitful  flashes,  but  lasting  only  wrhile  the  heat  is  on. 
So  he  waited  patiently  for  his  pupil  to  cool  down 
a  few  degrees,  to  something  like  "  temperate ;" 


HOW    TO    BE    KICH.  137 

for,  like  a  true  artist,  the  old  man  was  anxious  to 
fix  his  impression  while  the  scene  itself  ^vas  fresh 
before  the  eye.  He  sought  to  teach,  indeed,  as 
artists  sketch,  "from  Nature,"  because  he  had 
long  noted  how  strongly  the  associations  of  place 
serve  to  link  together  ideas  in  the  memory. 
Hence,  in  all  his  counselings,  he  had  ever  one 
object  in  view,  which  was  to  make  the  lesson  he 
desired  to  inculcate,  not  a  mere  flitting  phantasm 
or  shadowy  ghost  of  a  truth,  but  a  principle,  in 
stinct  with  all  the  vigor  of  life  itself;  and  to  do 
this,  he  sought  to  mix  it  up  with  some  strange 
sight  and  event  of  boyhood.  In  a  word,  he  strove 
to  dramatize,  as  it  were,  what  he  had  to  teach, 
with  all  the  real  scenery  of  time  and  place,  and 
so  to  interweave  it  with  the  web  of  youthful  ex 
istence,  that  the  mere  recollection  of  the  boyish 
adventure  should  serve  to  recall  with  it,  in  man 
hood,  the  golden  rule  that  he  wished  to  be  forever 
tableted  upon  the  mind. 

At  length,  however,  the  bloom  had  been  brush 
ed  off  the  novelty  of  the  scene ;  the  charm  of  the 
"strange  place"  had  lost  its  freshness  with  the 
familiarity  of  even  an  hour  or  two ;  and  the  lad, 
who  at  first  had  run  wild  as  a  deer,  startled  by 
the  strange  objects  about  him,  became  ere  long 
quiet  and  sedate  as  a  lark  at  sundown. 

The  tired  boy  lay  stretched  at  full  length  in  the 
tall  grass,  bedded  in  it,  as  if  couched  in  a  field  of 
standing  corn.  The  uncle,  who  sat  with  the  little 
fellow's  head  pillowed  on  his  lap,  rested  his  back 
against  the  trunk  of  a  huge  "  black  walnut"-tree 
that  stood  by  itself  on  the  plain  as  if  it  had  been 
planted  there ;  while  through  the  broad  foliage, 
the  glare  of  the  southern  sun  came  down,  soften 
ed  into  the  shade  of  a  cool  greenish  light,  except 
here  and  there,  where  the  beams  trickled  between 


133  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

the  leaves,  and  fell  upon  the  sward  in  bright  lus 
trous  goutes  that  flickered,  amid  the  dusk  of  the 
bosky  canopy,  like  a  swarm  of  golden  butterflies 
playing  about  the  grass. 

The  silence  that  reigned  throughout  the  vast 
plain  was  so  intense  that  it  cast  a  half-solemnity 
over  the  scene.  The  faint  murmur  of  the  distant 
Illinois  River  was  alone  to  be  heard,  and  this 
came  droning  through  the  air  with  every  gust, 
like  the  dying  hum  of  a  cathedral  bell.  The 
foliage  above  them,  too,  occasionally  rustled  like 
silk  in  the  passing  breeze ;  and  now  and  then 
the  scream  of  the  water-fowl,  or  the  howl  of  the 
prairie-dog,  or  lowing  of  far-off  cattle  might  be 
heard.  But  beyond  these,  the  wide  expanse  was 
mute  as  the  sea  itself  in  the  deepest  calm :  not 
the  click  of  a  woodman's  axe,  nor  the  moan  of  a 
cowherd's  horn,  nor  the  snap  even  of  a  distant 
rifle — no,  nor,  strange  to  say,  the  piping  of  a  single 
singing-bird,  smote  the  ear. 

"  Now,  my  little  man,"  began  the  uncle, "  if  you 
will  but  listen  to  me  for  a  while,  you  shall  learn, 
as  I  promised  you,  how  to  be  rich." 

The  boy  nodded  as  he  looked  up  and  smiled  in 
his  uncle's  face,  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  was 
ready  for  the  lesson. 

"Well,  you  remember,  Ben,"  he  proceeded, 
"  that  when  we  went  out  for  our  day's  fishing,  I 
showed  you  that  work  was  the  prime  necessity 
of  our  lives  ?" 

"  Yes,  uncle,"  exclaimed  the  youth  from  out  the 
old  man's  lap,  "  you  said  one  of  three  things  was 
unavoidable — either  work,  beggary,  or  starving ; 
I  remember  the  words  well." 

"That's  right, my  lad,"  rejoined  the  elder  one, 
as  he  patted 'his  little  pupil's  cheek  till  it  glowed 
again  with  blushes ;  "  but  in  such  a  place  as  this, 
Ben,  there  is  no  need  of  labor,  nor  any  fear  of 
starving  either." 


HOW   TO    BE   RICH.  139 

The  little  fellow  stared  with  amazement  at  the 
contradiction,  and  cried  aloud, "  Then  why  doesn't 
father  give  up  that  nasty  candle-making,  and  bring 
mother  and  all  of  us  out  here  to  the  prairies  to 
live  without  working  ?" 

"  Ay,"  replied  Uncle  Benjamin,  with  a  sarcastic 
chuckle,  "  to  live  the  life  of  savages,  my  boy — 
that  would  just  suit  your  mother  and  Deborah,  I 
know." 

"But  why,  uncle,"  again  inquired  the  simple 
lad,  "  must  we  either  work  or  starve  in  Boston, 
and  not  here  ?" 

"  Why,  my  son,"  the  other  made  answer,  "  be 
cause  here  the  earth  is  a  natural  garden,  stored 
with  more  than  a  sufficiency  for  the  supply  of 
man's  animal  wants.  Here,  one  has  but  to  stretch 
his  hand  out,  as  it  were,  to  get  a  meal ;  but  in  a 
city,  remember,  the  land  bears  bricks,  and  mortar, 
and  paving-stones  rather  than  food.  But  even  if 
corn  grew  in  the  streets,  Ben,  the  soil  of  Boston 
couldn't  possibly  feed  the  people  of  Boston ;  for 
in  Boston  city  there  are  hundreds  crowded  upon 
every  acre,  so  that  each  acre,  however  prolific, 
could  yield  but  little  more  than  a  loaf  a  year  for 
every  mouth." 

"  Oh !  I  see  what  you  mean,  uncle,"  said  the 
nephew,  half  to  himself,  as  he  turned  the  problem 
over  in  his  mind;  "you  mean  to  say,  I  suppose, 
that  there  are  so  many  mouths  to  feed  in  Boston, 
and  so  few  in  this  enormous  great  place,  that  there 
is  plenty  to  be  got  here  without  any  hard  work, 
and  only  just  enough  there  with  it." 

"  I  mean  not  only  that,  my  little  fellow,"  the 
old  man  returned,  "  but  what  I  wish  you  to  un 
derstand  is,  that  the  very  necessity  for  the  hard 
work  demanded  of  man  in  a  civilized  state  arises 
from  the  number  of  people  gathered  together  in 
the  different  communities  being  greater  than  the 


140  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

earth  can  naturally — or  rather,  I  should  say,  spon 
taneously —  support.  Here,  however,  the  land 
yields,  of  its  own  free-will,  such  a  superabundance 
of  natural  wealth  that  man  has  hardly  thought  it 
worth  his  while  to  begin  to  appropriate  any  por 
tion  of  it  to  his  own  individual  use ;  hence  the 
only  labor  required  in  such  a  place  as  this  is  that 
merely  of  collecting  the  riches  which  Nature  free 
ly  oifers  up  to  her  uncivilized  children.  Here  the 
fruit  has  but  to  be  plucked,  and  the  beasts  of  the 
field  or  birds  of  the  air  to  be  slain,  to  allay  the 
cravings  of  the  stomach,  so  that  a  hunter's  life  is 
sufficient  to  satisfy  the  common  necessities  of  hu 
man  existence." 

"  Oh  yes ;  and  that's  the  reason,  rnicle,  why 
these  prairies  are  called  the  'Indian  hunting- 
grounds,'  "  exclaimed  the  younger  Benjamin,  with 
no  little  delight,  as  the  true  significance  of  the 
phrase  flashed  across  his  mind. 

"  You  will  understand,  then,  my  boy,"  the  elder 
continued, "  that  so  long  as  the  children  of  Nature 
are  few  in  number,  and  their  mother-earth  yields 
more  than  enough  for  each  and  all  of  them,  there 
is  no  appropriation,  no  scrambling  for  the  world's 
riches,  no  hoarding  of  them,  no  coveting  of  our 
neighbor's  possessions,  no  theft,  nor,  indeed,  any 
labor  for  man  to  perform,  harder  than  that  of 
gathering  the  superabundant  food  as  he  may  want 
it.  Directly,  however,  the  human  family  begins 
to  outgrow  the  natural  resources  of  the  land  over 
which  it  is  distributed,  then  men  proceed  to  seize 
upon  the  good  things  of  the  world,  and  garner 
them  as  their  own  special  property,  while  others 
strive  to  force  the  earth  to  yield  by  cultivation 
more  than  the  natural  supply,  so  that  the  more 
savage  members  of  the  tribe  fall  to  fighting  among 
themselves  for  the  possessions  obtained  by  their 
brothers,  and  the  more  peaceable  and  sedate  to 


HOW    TO    BE    RICH.  141 

raise  for  their  own  use  fruits  and  grain  that  the 
soil  otherwise  would  never  have  borne.  Thus, 
then,  you  see,  Ben,  that  as  the  world  becomes  peo 
pled,  and  tribes  pass  from  a  state  of  nature  to  civ 
ilization,  there  are  developed  two  new  features  in 
human  life  —  the  one,  the  appropriation  of  what 
is  growing  scarce  (for  no  one  thinks  of  gathering 
and  hoarding  that  which  is  superabundant) ;  and 
the  other,  the  production  of  artificial  crops  and 
riches,  as  a  means  of  remedying  the  scarcity." 

"  I  think  I  can  make  out  now  what  seemed  so 
strange  to  me  before,  uncle,"  young  Benjamin 
chimed  in,  as  he  lay  looking  up  in  the  old  man's 
face ;  "  the  only  work  required  of  the  wild  Indians 
out  here  is  that  o£  gathering  the  fruits  of  the  earth, 
while  the  farmers  and  others  round  about  us  have 
to  prodtice  them." 

"  Just  so,  lad ;  and  while  collection  is  the  easi 
est  form  of  work,  production  is  a  long  and  labori 
ous  process,"  added  the  tutor. 

"  So  it  is,"  the  boy  made  answer,  as  the  differ 
ence  was  clearly  defined  to  him ;  "  it  takes  just  a 
year  for  the  harvest  to  come  round,  and  a  deal  of 
work  has  to  be  done  before  that — eh,  uncle  ?" 

"  Well,  then,  Ben,  the  next  thing  to  be  consid 
ered  is,  How  are  the  laborers  to  live  between  the 
crops?"  said  Uncle  Benjamin,  as  he  led  his  little 
pupil  step  by  step  through  the  maze  of  the  rea 
soning.  "  Collection  yields  an  immediate  return 
to  the  labor;  but  in  production  the  producers 
must  wait  for  the  produce,  and  of  course  live 
while  they  are  waiting." 

"  Of  course  they  must,"  echoed  the  youngster ; 
"  but  then,  you  know,  uncle,  they've  got  all  the 
last  year's  corn  to  keep  them." 

"  Yes ;  but  suppose,  my  little  man,  some  of 
them  made  their  corn  into  cakes,  and  pies,  and 
puddings,  as  well  as  bread,  and  so  ate  up  all  their 


142  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

stock  before  the  harvest  came  round  again,  what, 
then,  would  be  the  consequence  ?"  inquired  the 
uncle,  watching  the  effect  of  the  question  upon 
the  boy. 

"  Why,  then  they'd  have  to  starve,  of  course," 
was  the  simple  rejoinder,  for  the  youth  was  still 
unable  to  detect  the  drift  of  the  inquiry. 

"  Ay,  Benjamin,  to  starve,  or  else  to  labor  for 
the  benefit  of  those  who  had  been  more  prudent," 
answered  the  uncle,  still  gazing  intently  at  the 
youth  as  he  lay  with  his  head  pillowed  on  the  old 
man's  lap  ;  "  and  thus  civilized  society  would  be 
come  divided  into  two  distinct  classes  —  masters 
and  men,  rich  and  poor." 

"  Oh !  I  see,"  pondered  the  little  fellow,  as  he 
woke  up  to  the  truth ;  "  the  prudent  people  in  the 
world  become  the  rich,  and  the  imprudent  make 
the  poor."  But  presently  a  doubt  darted  across 
his  mind,  and  he  asked,  "  But  is  it  ahcays  so  in 
Boston  and  other  towns,  uncle  ?  Are  riches  got 
only  by  prudence,  and  is  imprudence  the  great 
cause  of  poverty  ?" 

"  I  know  what  is  passing  through  your  brain, 
Ben,"  interposed  the  old  man,  "  and  I  should  tell 
you  that  many  persons  are  certainly  born  to  rich 
es,  while  many  more  inherit  a  life  of  poverty,  lad. 
In  most  cases,  however,  the  heritage  is  the  result 
of  their  parents'  or  their  forefathers'  thrift,  or  the 
want  of  it.  If  your  father,  Ben,  chose  to  make  a 
beggar  of  himself,  not  only  would  he  suffer,  but 
you  and  your  brothers  and  sisters  would  become 
hereditary  beggars,  and,  most  likely,  find  it  diffi 
cult  in  after  life  to  raise  yourselves  above  beg 
gary." 

"  Then  the  sins  of  the  fathers,"  murmured  the 
thoughtful  lad,  "  are  really  '  visited  upon  the  chil 
dren  unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation,'  as  it 
says  in  the  commandment." 


HOW    TO    BE    KICK. 

"  Yes,  ray  little  man,"  the  elder  Benjamin  add 
ed,  "  poverty  is  truly  an  c  estate  in  tail.'  It  de 
scends  from  father  to  son  ;  and  it  is  supreme  hard 
work  to  c  dock  the  entail'  (as  lawyers  call  it), I  can 
tell  you.  As  the  mere  casualty  of  birth  ennobles 
the  son  of  a  noble,  so,  generally  speaking,  does  it 
pauperize  the  son  of  the  pauper.  The  majority 
of  the  rich  have  not  been  enriched  by  their  own 
merits,  boy,  nor  the  mass  of  the  poor  impoverish 
ed  by  their  own  demerits.  As  a  rule,  the  one 
class  is  no  more  essentially  virtuous  than  the  oth 
er  is  essentially  vicious.  The  vagabond  is  often 
lineally  descended  from  a  long  and  ancient  ances 
try  of  vagabonds,  even  as  the  proudest  peer  dates 
his  dignity  from  peers  before  the  Conquest.  The 
heraldry  of  beggary,  however,  is  an  unheard-of 
science.  The  patrician's  pedigree  forms  part  of 
the  chronicles  of  the  country ;  but  who  thinks  of 
the  mendicant's  family  tree  ?  And  yet,  lad,  the 
world  might  gather  more  sterling  wisdom  from 
the  genealogy  and  antecedents  of  the  one  than  the 
other.  '  Who  was  the  first  beggar  in  the  family  ? 
How  did  he  get  his  patent  of  beggary  ?  and  how 
many  generations  of  beggars  have  been  begotten 
by  this  one  man's  folly  or  vice  ?'  These  are  ques 
tions  which  few  give  heed  to,  my  son,  and  yet 
they  are  pregnant  with  the  highest  philosophy, 
ay,  and  the  most  enlightened  kindness." 

The  little  fellow  was  too  deeply  touched  with 
the  suggestiveness  of  his  uncle's  queries  to  utter 
a  word  in  reply.  He  was  thinking  how  he  should 
like  to  learn  from  the  next  beggar  he  met  what 
had  made  him  a  beggar — he  was  thinking  of  the 
little  beggar-children  he  had  seen  with  their  fa 
ther  and  mother  chanting  hymns  in  the  streets  of 
Boston,  and  wondering  whether  they  would  grow 
up  to  be  beggars  in  their  turn,  and  bring  their  lit 
tle  ones  up  to  beggary  also. 


144  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

"  Moreover,  I  should  tell  you,  lad,"  continued 
the  uncle,  after  a  brief  pause,  "  that  in  the  strug 
gle  of  the  transition  of  almost  every  race  from  a 
state  of  barbarism  to  civilization,  possessions  are 
mostly  acquired  by  force  of  arms  rather  than  by 
industry  and  frugality;  for  no  sooner  does  the 
scrambling  for  the  scanty  wealth  begin,  than  the 
strong  seize  not  only  upon  the  natural  riches  of 
the  earth,  but  upon  the  very  laborers  themselves, 
and  compel  them  to  till  the  land  as  slaves  for  their 
benefit.  But,  putting  these  matters  on  one  side, 
boy,  what  I  am  anxious  to  impress  upon  you  now 
is,  that  even  supposing  right,  rather  than,  might, 
had  prevailed  at  the  beginning  of  organized  soci 
ety,  and  all  had  started  feirly,  producing  for  them 
selves,  why,  long  before  the  second  harvest  had 
come  round,  some  would  have  eaten  up,  and  some 
would  have  wasted  their  first  year's  crop,  and 
these  must  naturally  have  become  the  serfs  of 
those  who  had  saved  theirs.  Thus,  then,  the  same 
broad  distinctions  as  exist  now  among  men  would 
have  sprung  up,  and  the  human  world  still  have 
been  separated  into  two  great  tribes — those  who 
had  plenty  of  breadstuff,  and  those  who  had  none ; 
while  those  who  had  no  food  of  their  own  would 
be  at  the  mercy  of  those  who  possessed  a  super 
abundance  ;  so  that  not  only  would  they  be  glad 
to  be  allowed  to  labor  for  the  others'  benefit,  but 
even  constrained  to  work  for  the  veriest  pittance 
that  their  masters  chose  to  dole  out  to  them." 

Little  Benjamin  remained  silent,  conning  the 
hard  bit  of  worldly  wisdom  that  had  been  for  the 
first  time  revealed  to  him. 

The  uncle  noticed  the  impression  his  words 
had  made,  and  added,  "  Such,  my  little  man,  are 
the  social  advantages  of  prudence,  and  such  the 
heavy  penalties  that  men  pay  for  lack  of  thrift  in 
life.  But,  before  we  proceed  any  farther,  Ben, 


II OW    TO    BE    RICH.  145 

let  us  thoroughly  comprehend  what  this  same 
prudence  means." 

The  boy  stared  at  his  uncle  as  he  awaited  the 
explanation. 

"  In  the  first  place,  then,"  the  godfather  went 
on,  "  we  must  not  confound  prudence  with  miser 
liness,  nor  even  with  meanness.  To  be  miserly, 
my  son,  is  as  improvident  as  to  be  prodigal ;  for 
to  hoard  that  which  is  of  use  chiefly  in  being 
used — in  being  used  as  a  means  of  farther  pro 
duction — is  as  unwise  as  to  squander  it.  To  do 
this  is  to  live  a  pauper's  life  amid  riches,  and  thus 
not  only  to  forestall  the  beggary  that  true  pru 
dence  seeks  to  avoid,  but  to  waste  the  wealth  (by 
allowing  it  to  remain  idle)  that  is  valuable  only 
in  being  applied  as  the  means  of  future  benefit  or 
enjoyment.  To  be  mean,  on  the  other  hand,  my 
lad,  is  to  be  either  unjust  or  ignoble;  and  en 
lightened  worldly  discretion  would  prompt  us  to 
be  neither,  for  there  is  no  real  prudence  in  ignor 
ing  the  duties,  the  dignities,  or  even  the  charities 
of  life." 

"  Tell  me,  then,  uncle,  what  prudence  really  is" 
asked  the  boy,  who  was  half  bewildered  now  that 
he  had  learned  what  it  was  not. 

"  Why,  prudence,  my  little  fellow,  is  simply 
that  wise  worldly  caution  which  comes  of  fore 
sight  regarding  the  circumstances  that  are  likely 
to  affect  our  own  happiness.  Morally  considered, 
it  is  the  heroism  of  enlightened  selfishness — in 
tellectually  regarded,  it  is  the  judgment  counsel 
ing  the  heart;  while  in  a  religious  point  of  view 
it  is  the  divine  element  of c  Providence'  narrowed 
down  to  the  limits  of  human  knowledge  and  hu 
man  vision.  The  learned  man,  Ben,  exists  mainly 
in  the  past ;  the  thoughtless  one  lives  only  in  the 
present ;  but  the  wise  dwell  principally  in  the 
future.  And  as  the  astronomer  foresees  the  con- 
K 


146  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

junctions  of  planets,  the  recurrence  of  eclipses, 
and  return  of  comets  years  ere  they  happen,  so 
the  true  sage,  in  the  great  universe  of  circum 
stances  surrounding  our  lives,  has  a  prescience 
of  the  coming  good  or  evil,  and  makes  the  bene 
fits  of  to-day  serve  to  mitigate  the  miseries  of  to 
morrow." 

"  Dear  me !"  cried  the  youth,  amazed  at  the 
glowing  picture  his  godfather  had  given  of  the 
virtue,  "  why,  I  thought  prudence  merely  meant 
saving,  uncle." 

"Ay,  and  you  thought  saving,  doubtlessly," 
added  the  tutor,  sarcastically,  "but  a  poor  and 
paltry  good  after  all.  Youths  mostly  do  think 
so,  Ben ;  for  it  is  but  natural  that  to  take  any 
steps  to  avert  the  perils  of  old  age  at  a  time 
when  they  are  most  remote  should  appear  to  the 
inexperienced  as  being,  to  say  the  least,  most 
premature.  Nevertheless,  Ben,  saving  is  one  of 
the  means  by  which  prudence  seeks  to  change 
unusual  luck  into  uniform  benefit ;  to  make  the 
strokes  of  good  fortune  in  the  world  so  temper 
the  heavy  blows  and  disasters  of  life,  that  our 
days  shall  be  one  round  of  average  happiness 
rather  than  (as  they  otherwise  must  be)  a  series 
of  intermittent  joys  and  miseries.  But  not  only 
is  it  by  saving,  lad,  that  the  enormities  of  surfeit 
at  one  particular  time,  and  of  griping  want  at  an 
other,  are  converted  into  the  even  tenor  of  general 
sufficiency,  but  without  saving  there  could  be  no 
production  of  wealth  in  the  world." 

"  How  so,  uncle  ?"  asked  the  younger  Benjamin. 

"  Why,  boy,"  the  other  went  on,  "  in  order  to 
do  any  productive  work,  three  things  are  always 
necessary :  first,  there  must  be  something  to  go  to 
work  upon ;  secondly,  there  must  be  something  to 
go  to  work  with ;  and,  thirdly,  something  where 
with  to  keep  the  workman  while  working — that 


HOW   TO   BE   EICH.  147 

is  to  say,  the  workman,  unless  duly  provided  with 
materials,  tools,  and  food,  can  do  no  work  at  all. 
A  tailor,  for  instance,  Ben,  can  not  make  a  coat 
without  cloth,  or  needles  and  thread ;  nor  a  car 
penter  build  a  house  without  a  board,  or  a  saw, 
or  plane ;  nor  a  smith  work  without  metal,  or  file, 
or  hammer ;  nor,  indeed,  can  any  handicraftsman 
continue  laboring  without '  bite  or  sup'  as  well." 

"  Of  course  they  can't,"  assented  the  boy ;  "  but 
still  I  can't  make  out  what  that  has  to  do  with 
saving,  uncle." 

"  Simply  this,  lad,"  the  godfather  made  answer. 
"  Such  things  can  be  acquired  only  by  husband 
ing  the  previous  gains ;  for  if  none  of  the  past 
year's  yield  were  to  be  set  aside  as  stock  or  cap 
ital  for  the  next  year's  supply — if  none  of  the  corn 
grown,  for  example,  were  to  be  saved  for  seed — 
none  devoted  to  the  maintenance  of  the  smiths 
while  manufacturing  the  implements  wherewith 
to  till  the  soil,  and  none  laid  by  for  the  keep  of 
the  laborers  while  tilling  it,  there  could  not  pos 
sibly  be  any  farther  produce." 

"  Oh,  I  see !"  the  youth  exclaimed.  "  I've  often 
heard  father  talk  of  the  '  capital'  required  to  start 
a  person  in  business,  but  hardly  knew  what  he 
meant." 

"  Yes,  boy,  I  dare  say,"  the  other  added ;  "  and 
now  you  perceive  that  your  father  meant  by  it 
merely  the  wealth  that  is  required  to  make  more 
wealth ;  the  stock  that  it  is  necessary  to  have  in 
hand  before  any  farther  supply  can  be  raised. 
Capital,  Ben,  is  nothing  more  than  the  golden 
grain  which  has  been  husbanded  as  seed  for  the 
future  golden  crop — a  certain  store  of  wealth  laid 
up  for  the  purposes  of  farther  production  or  of 
trade ;  and  such  store  can  be  obtained,  it  is  man 
ifest,  only  by  not  consuming  all  we  get.  So  ab 
solutely  indispensable,  too,  is  this  capital,  or  stock 


148  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

in  hand,  for  carrying  on  the  great  business  of  life, 
that  all  who  would  be  the  masters  of  the  world 
must  themselves  either  possess  a  certain  portion 
of  it,  or  pay  others  interest  for  the  use  of  it ;  while 
those  who  have  none,  and  can  get  none,  must 
needs  be  the  laborers  and  servants  of  the  others." 

"  '  Interest !'  "  echoed  young  Benjamin,  catch 
ing  at  the  word  he  had  heard  so  often  used  in 
conversation  at  home,  but  of  which  he  had  as  yet 
scarcely  formed  a  definite  idea.  "  But  don't  some 
people,  uncle,  live  upon  the  interest  of  their  prop 
erty  without  doing  any  work  at  all  ?  Father  has 
told  me  so,  I  think ;  and  how  can  that  be,  if  work, 
as  you  say,  is  the  prime  necessity  of  life  ?" 

"  Ay,  lad,  we  must  either  work  ourselves  or  be 
able  to  employ  others  to  work  for  us,"  was  the 
rejoinder ;  "  and  those  who  live  on  the  interest 
of  their  money  do  the  latter,  but  they  do  so  in 
directly,  rather  than  directly,  like  the  real  employ 
er  himself." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  uncle,"  was  all  the 
little  fellow  could  say,  as  he  knit  his  brows  in  the 
vain  attempt  to  solve  the  worldly  problem. 

"  Well,  Ben,"  replied  the  old  man,  "  I  will  try 
and  make  the  matter  plainer  to  you.  The  fund 
that  it  is  necessary  to  have  in  hand,  in  order  to 
supply  the  materials  and  implements  (or,  maybe, 
the  machinery)  required  for  producing  a  partic 
ular  commodity,  as  w^ell  as  to  provide  the  main 
tenance  of  the  workmen  employed  in  producing 
it,  may  either  have  been  acquired  by  our  own 
thrift,  or  it  may  have  formed  part  of  the  savings 
of  others.  In  the  one  case,  of  course,  we  alone 
are  interested  in  the  result ;  in  the  other,  how 
ever,  it  is  but  fair  and  right  that  they  who  supply 
us  with  the  means  of  obtaining  a  certain  valuable 
return  should  be  allowed  a  proportionate  share 
or  interest,  as  it  is  termed,  in  the  gains.  If  a 


HOW    TO    BE    RICH.  149 

portion  of  land  be  naturally  more  fertile  than  an- 
other  —  if,  for  instance,  the  fields  in  the  valley 
yield,  with  the  same  amount  of  labor,  a  ten-fold 
crop  over  and  above  those  on  the  mountains, 
such  extra  fertility  is,  of  course,  a  natural  boon, 
and  this  natural  boon  must  accrue  to  some  one. 
Well,  if  the  individual  who  has  acquired  the  right 
to  it  do  not  till  the  fields  himself,  it  is  self-evident 
that  he  will  not  part  with  such  right  to  others 
without  reserving  to  himself  some  share  or  inter 
est  in  the  after-produce.  Now  this  share  or  in 
terest  that  the  landlord  reserves  to  himself  for 
the  superior  productiveness  of  certain  lands  is 
what  the  world  calls  '  rent ;'  and  your  own  sense, 
lad,  will  show  you  that  a  person  possessing  many 
such  acres  might  live  merely  upon  the  interest 
he  has  in  the  crops  that  are  raised  upon  them  by 
others,  rather  than  by  raising  any  himself." 

"  Go  on,  uncle,  go  on ;  I  begin  to  see  it  a  little 
plainer  now,"  the  youth  cried,  as  the  fog  in  his 
brain  gradually  cleared  away. 

"  Well,  my  good  boy,"  proceeded  the  godfa 
ther,  "  capital  is  as  productive  as  land  itself;  dis 
creetly  used,  it  yields  crop  after  crop  of  profits ; 
and  interest  for  money  is  but  the  rent  or  share 
that  the  wealthy  reserve  to  themselves  for  the 
use  of  their  property,  when  applied  to  productive 
purposes  by  others.  And  as  the  rent  of  a  large 
number  of  acres  cultivated  by  tenants  may,  as  I 
said  before,  yield  a  person  a  sufficient  income  to 
live  in  ease  and  affluence  without  even  the  cares 
of  conducting  the  work,  or  the  responsibility  of 
good  and  bad  seasons,  so  a  man  with  many  hund 
reds  of  guineas  may  leave  the  fructification  of  his 
capital  to  more  active  and  enterprising  natures, 
while  he  himself  subsists  in  comfort  upon  that 
mere  interest  or  indirect  share  in  the  gains  which 
he  claims  for  the  use  of  his  savings.  If  capital 


150  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

were  as  unproductive  as  barren  land,  no  one 
would  pay  interest  for  the  one  any  more  than 
they  would  dream  of  giving  rent  for  the  other. 
And  as  the  scale  of  rent  is  equivalent  merely  to 
the  comparative  fertility  of  different  soils,  so  the 
rate  of  interest  expresses  only  the  value  of  capital 
in  the  market,  according  to  the  individual  risk  or 
the  general  want  of  money." 

"I  see!  I  see!"  exclaimed  the  youth. 

"  Money  makes  money,  boy,"  the  godfather 
continued ;  "  it  grows  as  assuredly  as  the  corn 
grows,  for  the  growth  of  the  grain  is  but  the 
fructification  of  the  capital  that  has  been  applied 
to  the  land ;  and  if  a  hundred  guineas  sterling 
put  into  the  soil  in  the  shape  of  seed,  manure, 
and  wages,  will  yield  at  the  end  of  the  harvest  a 
crop  worth  say  a  hundred  and  twenty  guineas, 
surely,  then,  the  money  (which,  after  all,  is  but  the 
ultimate  crop  reduced  to  its  pecuniary  value)  has 
fructified  at  a  corresponding  rate  with  the  blades 
themselves.  A  guinea  allowed  to  remain  idle, 
Ben,  is  as  bad  as  land  that  is  allowed  to  grow 
weeds  instead  of  wheat.  Every  grain  of  corn 
eaten,  lad,  is  a  grain  absolutely  destroyed ;  but 
every  grain  sown  yields  an  ear,  and  every  extra 
ear  adds  to  the  common  stock  of  food.  In  like 
manner,  wealth  squandered  is  so  much  wealth 
positively  lost  to  the  world ;  whereas  wealth 
saved,  and  used  as  capital  in  some  productive 
employment,  serves  not  only  to  find  work  and 
subsistence  for  the  poor,  but  to  increase  the  gross 
fund  of  available  riches  in  the  community." 

"  It  is  good,  then,  to  save,  uncle,"  observed  the 
boy. 

"  It  is  as  good  to  save  and  use  wealth  discreet 
ly,  my  lad,  as  it  is  base  to  hoard  and  lock  it  up, 
and  wicked  to  squander  and  waste  it.  Saving, 
indeed,  is  no  mean  virtue.  Not  only  does  it  re- 


HOW   TO    BE   KICK.  151 

quire  high  self-denial  in  order  to  forego  the  im 
mediate  pleasure  which  wealth  in  hand  can  always 
obtain  for  its  possessors,  but  it  needs  as  much  in 
tellectual  strength  to  perceive  the  future  good 
with  all  the  vividness  of  a  present  benefit  as  it 
does  moral  control  to  restrain  the  propensities  of 
the  time  being  for  the  enjoyment  of  happiness  in 
years  to  come.  Again,  boy,  it  is  merely  by  the 
frugality  of  civilized  communities  that  cities  are 
built,  the  institutions  of  society  maintained,  and 
all  the  complex  machinery  of  enlightened  indus 
try  and  commerce  kept  in  operation.  If  every 
one  lived  from  hand  to  mouth,  Ben,  there  could 
be  no  schools,  nor  libraries,  nor  churches,  nor 
courts  of  justice,  nor  hospitals,  nor  senate-houses; 
neither  could  there  be  any  government,  nor  law, 
nor  medicine,  nor  any  religious  or  intellectual 
teaching  among  the  people ;  for  as  such  modes  of 
life  add  nothing  directly  to  the  common  stock  of 
food  and  clothing,  nor,  indeed,  to  the  gross  mate 
rial  wealth  of  a  nation,  it  is  manifest  that  they  who 
follow  them  can  do  so  only  at  the  expense  of  the 

feneral  savings.  Farther,  my  lad,  a  moment's  re- 
ection  will  show  you  that  roads,  and  docks,  and 
shipping,  and  warehouses,  and  markets,  as  well  as 
factories  and  shops,  together  with  all  the  appli 
ances  of  tools  and  machinery,  can  only  be  con 
structed  out  of  the  capital  stock  of  the  common 
wealth  ;  so  that  the  chief  difference  between  the 
wild  luxuriant  hunting-grounds  before  you  and 
the  great  town  of  Boston  in  which  you  live,  Ben, 
is  that  here  even  Nature  herself  is  so  prodigal 
that  nothing  needs  to  be  stored,  while  there  ev 
ery  thing  has  sprung  out  of  a  wise  economy. 
There  the  very  paving-stones  in  the  streets  are 
representatives  of  so  much  wealth  treasured.,  lit 
erally,  against '  a  rainy  day,'  and  every  edifice  is  a 
monument  of  the  industry  and  frugality  of  the 


152  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

citizens ;  there  not  a  vessel  enters  the  port  but  it 
conies  laden  with  the  rich  fruits  of  some  man's 
thrift  and  providence ;  there  not  a  field  is  tilled 
but  it  is  sown  with  the  seeds  of  another's  fore 
thought,  and  not  a  crop  raised  that  is  not  a  gold 
en  witness  of  the  good  husbanding  of  the  hus 
bandman  ;  there,  too,  the  store-houses  are  piled 
up  with  treasures  brought  from  the  very  corners 
of  the  earth  to  serve  as  the  means  of  future  em 
ployment  for  the  poor,  and  the  banks  sparkle 
with  riches  which,  rightly  viewed,  are  but  the 
bright  medals  that  have  been  won  by  the  heroism 
of  hard  work  and  self-denial  in  the  great  '  battle 
of  life.'" 

"Has  all  Boston,  then,  and  all  the  ships  in  the 
port  and  goods  in  the  warehouses,"  the  boy  said 
half  to  himself,  "  come  out  of  the  savings  of  the 
people?" 

"Assuredly  they  have,  lad,"  was  the  reply. 
cc  Just  think  how  many  pounds  of  bread  and  meat 
it  must  take  to  build  a  ship,  and  then  ask  your 
self  whether  there  could  be  a  single  vessel  in  Bos 
ton  Harbor  if  some  one  hadn't  saved  a  sufficient 
store  to  keep  the  wroodmen  while  felling  the  tim 
ber,  and  the  shipwrights  while  putting  it  togeth 
er.  You  see  now  the  high  social  use  of  saving, 
Ben.  It  not  only  gives  riches  to  the  rich,  remem 
ber,  but  it  provides  work  and  food  for  the  poor  ; 
for  the  prosperous  man  who  duly  husbands  his 
gains  benefits  at  once  himself  and  those  who  have 
been  less  lucky  or  prudent  than  he.  Nor  is  this 
all.  It  is  by  saving  alone  that  a  man  can  eman 
cipate  himself  from  the  primeval  doom  of  life-long 
labor.  There  are  no  other  means  of  purchasing 
exemption  from  the  ban.  We  are  the  born  slaves 
of  our  natural  wants  —  the  serfs  of  our  common 
appetites,  and  it  is  only  by  industry  and  thrift 
that  we  can  wrest  the  iron  collar  from  our  neck. 


HOW   TO    BE   RICH.  153 

If,  then,  in  the  greed  of  our  natures,  we  will  de 
vour  all  we  get,  we  must  either  starve  or  become 
the  voluntary  villeins  of  those  who  have  been 
more  frugal  than  we.  By  prudence,  Ben,  I  re 
peat,  we  may  become  the  masters  of  the  world ; 
by  imprudence,  we  must  remain  the  bondsmen 
of  it.  In  a  word,  you  must  save,  or  be  a  slave, 
lad." 

"Save,  or  be  a  slave"  the  boy  kept  on  murmur 
ing  to  himself,  for  the  words  had  sunk  deep  into 
his  soul.  "  Save,  or  be  a  slave." 

Presently  little  Ben  woke  up  out  of  the  dream 
into  which  the  burden  of  the  song,  so  to  speak, 
had  thrown  him,  and  he  asked, "  But,  uncle,  can 
people  become  rich  only  by  saving  ?  I  have  heard 
father  speak  of  persons  having  made  large  for 
tunes  in  a  short  time ;  and  when  you  told  me  that 
story  about  Bernard  Palissy  the  potter  (you  re 
member,  uncle,"  he  interjected,  with  a  smile,  "  on 
the  night  when  we  were  becalmed,  and  I  rowed 
you  to  Boston  Harbor),  I  thought  you  said  Ber 
nard  made  —  oh,  a  great,  great  deal  of  money, 
merely  by  finding  out  how  to  glaze  earthenware." 

"  Well  said,  my  child,  well  said !"  nodded  the 
godfather ;  "  and  that  reminds  me  that  I  should 
tell  you  there  are  two  different  and  opposite 
modes  of  becoming  rich  :  the  one  slow  and  sure, 
and  the  other  rapid  and  uncertain ;  the  first  is  the 
process  of  patient  industry  and  wise  prudence ; 
the  second  that  of  clever  scheming  and  bold  ad 
venture.  A  man  may  certainly  invent  rather  than 
earn  a  fortune  for  himself;  he  may  stumble  upon 
a  gold  mine  without  even  the  trouble  of  hunting 
for  it ;  or  he  may  discover  some  new  mode  of  pro 
duction,  as  Gutenburg,  the  inventor  of  movable 
types,  did ;  or  he  may  insure  a  vessel  that  is  sup 
posed  to  be  lost,  and  see  the  ship  the  next  day 
come  sailing  into  the  harbor ;  or  he  may  speculate 


154  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

for  a  rise  in  the  market-price  of  a  particular  com 
modity,  and  realize  thousands  by  the  venture ;  or 
he  may  buy  a  ticket  in  a  lottery,  and  wake  up 
some  morning  and  find  himself  the  lucky  holder 
of  a  twenty-thousand  guinea  prize ;  or,  indeed,  he 
may  do  a  hundred  and  one  things  by  which  large 
sums  of  money  are  occasionally  obtained,  as  it 
were,  in  an  instant." 

"  Oh,  then,"  cried  the  lad,  "  where's  the  good, 
I  should  like  to  know,  of  going  through  years  of 
hard  work,  and  stinting  and  saving,  in  order  to 
get  rich,  if  it's  possible  to  make  one's  fortune  in 
an  instant,  as  you  say.  I  know  what  I  shall  do," 
he  added,  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  faced 
about,  elated  with  the  thought,  "  I  shall  try  and 
discover  something,  as  Palissy  the  potter  did,  and 
get  a  good  lot  of  money  by  it  all  in  a  minute." 

"  Ay,  c?o,"  gravely  responded  the  tutor,  "  and 
you  will  be  a  mere  schemer  your  life  through,  and 
find  yourself  most  likely  a  beggar  in  the  end." 

"Well,  but,  uncle,"  expostulated  the  youth, 
"  don't  you  yourself  say  some  people  have  done 
such  things  ?" 

"  Yes,  boy,  some  have,  certainly,"  was  the  re 
ply  ;  "  but  in  such  matters,  Ben,  success  is  the  one 
splendid  exception ;  disappointment,  failure,  and 
beggary  the  bitter  and  uniform  rule.  In  all  the 
lotteries  of  life,  the  chances  are  a  million  to  one 
against  any  particular  adventurer  drawing  a  prize. 
Some  one  will  be  the  lucky  wight  assuredly,  but 
then  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  thousand  and 
nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  others  will  as  as 
suredly  get  blanks.  It  is  only  fools  who  trust  to 
accidents  or  chance ;  the  wise  submit  to  rule ; 
and  the  golden  rule  of  life  is  that  scheming  and 
adventure  fail  a  thousand  fold  oftener  than  they 
succeed,  whereas  industry  and  prudence  succeed 
a  thousand  fold  oftener  than  they  fail.  The  one 


HOW    TO    BE    RICH.  155 

mode  of  amassing  wealth,"  continued  the  old  man, 
"  may  be  tempting  from  its  seeming  rapidity,  but 
it  is  far  more  disheartening  in  the  end,  lad,  from 
its  real  uncertainty ;  while  the  other  mode,  if  al 
loyed  with  the  inconvenience  of  being  slow,  has 
at  least  the  crowning  comfort  of  being  sure." 

"I  see !  I  see  what  you  mean  now,"  ejaculated 
little  Ben,  thoughtfully. 

"  Well,  then,  do  you  understand  now  how  to 
be  rich,  my  little  man?"  the  teacher  inquired. 

"  Oh  yes,  uncle,"  cried  the  youth,  delighted  to 
let  his  tutor  see  how  well  he  had  understood  him ; 
"  by  living  on  less  than  we  get." 

The  godfather  smiled  as  he  shook  his  head,  as 
much  as  to  say  the  lad  was  at  fault  somewhere. 
"  That  is  only  one  part  of  the  process,  Ben,"  pres 
ently  he  said.  "To  live  on  less  than  we  get  is 
merely  to  hoard,  and  hoarding  is  not  husbanding. 
To  husband  well  is  at  once  to  economize  and  fer 
tilize  ;  it  is  not  only  to  garner,  but  to  sow  and  to 
reap  also.  The  good  husbandman  does  not  allow 
his  acres  to  lie  forever  idle,  but  he  uses  and  em 
ploys  all  his  means  with  care,  and  in  the  manner 
best  suited  to  produce  the  greatest  yield.  To  be 
rich,  then,  my  little  man,  we  must  not  only  work 
and  get,  and  live  on  less  than  we  get,  but — but 
what,  Ben  ?" 

"  We  must  use  and  employ,  as  you  call  it,  uncle, 
what  we  save,"  was  now  the  ready  reply. 

"  Right,  lad,"  the  old  man  continued ;  "  we  must 
make  our  savings  work  as  well  as  ourselves,  in 
order  to  make  them  useful.  Nothing,  indeed, 
can  be  rendered  productive  without  work,  and  a 
pound  becomes  a  guinea  at  the  year's  end  merely 
because  it  has  been  used  as  the  means  of  giving 
employment  to  those  who  had  not  a  pound  of 
their  own  to  go  to  work  upon." 

"  But,  uncle,"  exclaimed  the  lad,  with  eager- 


16C  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

ness,  as  a  seeming  difficulty  suddenly  crossed  his 
mind,  "  how  are  people  to  live  on  less  than  they 
get  if  they  don't  get  enough  to  live,  upon?" 

"  Ah !  Ben,  it  is  that  same  phantom  of '  enough' 
which  is  the  will-o'-the-wisp  of  the  whole  world," 
answered  the  old  man.  "  The  boundary  to  our 
wishes  is  as  illusive  as  the  silver  ring  of  the  hori 
zon  to  a  child  at  sea:  it  seems  so  near  and  so 
like  the  journey's  end ;  and  yet,  let  the  bark  speed 
on  its  course  day  after  day,  and  the  voyage  be  as 
prosperous  as  it  may,  there  it  remains  the  same 
bright,  dreamy  bourn — always  apparently  as  close 
at  hand,  and  yet  always  really  as  distant  from  the 
voyager  as  when  he  started.  There  is  no  such 
quality  as  enough,  lad,  in  the  world.  We  might 
as  well  attempt  to  wall  in  all  space  as  to  limit  the 
illimitable  desires  of  human  nature.  The  capa 
cious  stomach  of  man's  ambition  and  avarice  is 
never  surfeited.  The  merchant  prince  has  no 
more  enough  than  the  pauper ;  and  the  man  who 
delays  saving  because  he  has  not  enough  to  live 
upon  will  never  have  enough  to  save  upon.  Let 
us  get  never  so  little,  at  least  some  little,  even  of 
that  little,  may  be  laid  by,  if  we  will  but  be  frugal, 
and  a  store  once  raised  and  duly  husbanded  will 
soon  serve  to  change  the  little  into  more.  If  we 
have  not  sufficient  moral  control  to  keep  our  de 
sires  within  our  means  in  one  station  of  life,  de 
pend  upon  it,  lad,  such  is  the  expansibility  of 
human  wishes,  that  there  will  be  the  same  lack 
of  self-restraint  in  any  other.*  The  really  prudent 

*  Benjamin  Franklin,  the  hero  of  the  present  book,  lived 
to  exemplify  how  little  is  required  for  the  satisfaction  of 
man's  wants.  His  diet,  when  he  was  working  as  a  journey 
man  printer  in  London,  consisted  merely  of  20  Ibs.  of  bread 
a  week,  or  a  little  more  than  half  a  quartern  loaf  per  diem, 
with  water,  as  the  French  say,  a  discretion ;  and  this  regimen 
he  submitted  to,  principally,  in  order  to  be  able  to  purchase 
books  out  of  the  remainder  of  his  wages. 


HOW    TO    BE    RICH.  157 

are  prudent  under  all  circumstances ;  and  those  in 
adversity,  who  wait  for  prosperity  to  give  them 
the  means  of  laying  up  a  fund  for  future  ease,  may 
wait  forever  and  ever,  since  prosperity  can  come 
only  through  the  very  means  they  are  idly  wait 
ing  for.  The  main  object  of  all  saving  is  redemp 
tion  from  poverty,  and  the  poorer  the  people,  the 
greater  the  reason  for  their  pursuing  the  only 
course  that  can  possibly  bring  riches  to  them, 
and  emancipate  them  from  the  misery  that  is  for 
ever  hanging  over  them  like  a  doom.  It  may  be 
hard,  Ben,  to  save  under  griping  necessity,  but 
every  penny  husbanded  serves  to  relax  the  grip ; 
and,  hard  as  it  is,  we  must  ever  bear  in  mind  that 
there  is  no  other  loophole  in  the  world  by  which 
to  escape  from  want  to  comfort,  from  slavery  to 
independence." 

"  Ay,  uncle,  it  is  as  you  said,  we  must  save  or 
be  a  slave,"  returned  the  little  fellow.  "  I  shall 
never  think  of  the  prairies  without  remembering 
the  words." 

The  lesson  ended,  it  was  high  time  for  the 
horses  to  be  resaddled,  for  already  the  long  shad 
ows  of  the  solitary  clumps  of  trees  had  begun  to 
stripe  the  emerald  plains,  the  black  bands  con 
trasting  with  the  golden  green  of  the  sward, 
burnished  as  it  seemed  now  with  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun,  till  the  meadows  shone  with  all  the 
belted  brilliance  of  a  mackerel's  back.  And  as 
the  couple  set  out  on  their  journey  homeward, 
the  little  fellow  followed,  almost  mechanically,  in 
his  uncle's  track,  for  he  was  still  busy,  as  he  jog 
ged  along,  revolving  the  hard  truths  he  had  learn 
ed  for  the  first  time  in  life,  and  muttering  to  him 
self  by  the  way,  "  Save  !  save !  or  be  a  slave." 


153  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FBANKLIN. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

AN  ALARM. 

THEEE  was  a  loud  knocking  at  the  shop  door 
of  the  candle-store  at  the  corner  of  Hanover  and 
"Union  Streets,  in  the  city  of  Boston — a  knock  that 
sounded  the  louder  from  the  lateness  of  the  hour 
and  the  utter  stillness  of  the  streets  at  the  time. 

The  Puritan  family  were  on  their  knees  in  the 
little  back  parlor,  engaged  in  their  devotions  pre 
vious  to  retiring  to  rest  for  the  night;  so  the 
summons  went  unheeded. 

"We  pray  Thee,  O  Lord,"  continued  the  fa 
ther,  as  he  offered  up  the  usual  extemporaneous 
prayer,  and  proceeded  to  ask  a  blessing  for  the 
last  member  of  his  household  before  concluding 
the  family  worship,  "  to  bless  our  youngest  child 
Benjamin.  Watch  over  him,  O  God — " 

Again  the  noisy  summons  interrupted  the  sup 
plication,  but  still  the  prayer  went  on. 

"  And  so  strengthen  him  with  Thy  grace  that 
he  may  grow  up  to  walk  in  Thy  ways  for  the  rest 
of  his  life ;  and  if  his  body  or  his  soul  be  in  peril 
at  this  moment,  grant,  O  grant,  we  beseech  Thee, 
that  the  danger  may  be  only  for  the  time." 

"  A.men !"  fervently  exclaimed  the  mother,  rais 
ing  her  head  from  the  cushion  of  the  bee-hive 
chair  before  which  she  was  kneeling. 

Again  the  knocking  was  repeated,  and  this  time 
so  vigorously  that  the  mother  and  Deborah  both 
started  back  from  their  chairs,  and  would  have 
risen  from  the  floor  had  they  not  seen  that  Josiah 
paid  little  or  no  regard  to  the  disturbance. 


AN    ALAKM.  159 

Nor  did  the  father  move  a  limb  (though  the 
noise  at  last  continued  without  ceasing  till  he  had 
besought  the  customary  blessing  on  all  his  neigh 
bors  and  friends,  and  even  his  enemies  too. 

Immediately  the  ceremony  was  finished  Dame 
Franklin  jumped  up  and  cried,  "Who  ever  can 
want  admission  here  at  such  a  time  of  the  night  ?" 

Deborah  was  no  sooner  on  her  feet  than  she 
ran  to  her  mother's  side,  and  clung  close  to  her 
skirt  as  she  watched  her  father  move  leisurely  to 
ward  the  outer  shop  door. 

"Be  sure  and  ask  who  it  is  before  you  undo 
the  bolt,  Josh !"  screamed  the  wife  in  her  alarm ; 
but  the  words  were  scarcely  uttered  ere  the  voice 
of  Uncle  Ben  was  heard  shouting  without, "  What, 
are  you  all  gone  to  bed  here,  eh  ?" 

On  the  door  being  opened,  the  younger  Benja 
min  flung  himself  into  the  arms  of  his  father,  and 
smothered  the  old  man's  words  with  kisses,  while 
the  mother  and  Deborah  no  sooner  caught  the 
sound  of  the  well-known  voice  than  they  rushed 
forward  to  take  part  in  the  greeting. 

Then  came  a  volley  of  questionings :  "  Where 
on  earth  have  you  been  to  ?"  "  What  have 
you  been  doing  with  yourselves  all  this  time  ?" 
"Why  didn't  you  say  you  should  be  so  long  gone 
when  you  started?"  "Don't  you  think  it  was 
high  time  for  us  to  get  alarmed  about  you?" 
"  What  have  you  seen,  Ben  ?"  asked  Deborah,  on 
the  sly.  "  How  ever  did  you  manage  for  clean 
clothes  ?"  chimed  in  the  mother.  "  You  surely 
must  have  run  short  of  money,"  interrupted  the 
father. 

But,  the  greeting  over,  the  boy,  who  since  dusk 
had  been  asleep  on  board  the  sloop  that  had 
brought  him  and  his  uncle  to  Boston,  was  too 
tired  with  the  long  voyage  to  enter  into  the  many 
explanations  demanded  of  him ;  and  though  the 


160  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   PKANKLIN. 

mother,  mother-like,  "  was  sure  he  was  sinking  for 
want  of  food,"  young  Ben  showed  such  a  decided 
preference  for  bed  to  bread  and  cheese,  that  Dame 
Franklin  at  length  hurried  the  drowsy  lad  and 
his  sister  to  their  chambers  for  the  night,  while 
she  herself  staid  behind  to  spread  the  cold  corned 
brisket  and  cider  for  her  brother-in-law. 

As  the  uncle  munched  the  beef,  he  carried  the 
parents  as  briefly  as  possible  through  the  several 
scenes  of  his  long  journey  with  the  boy ;  and  when 
he  had  borne  them  to  the  Western  prairies,  he  ran 
over  the  heads  of  the  lesson  he  had  impressed 
upon  the  youth  there.  Nor  did  he  forget,  as  he 
brought  them  back  home  again,  to  gladden  their 
hearts  by  telling  them  how  their  son  had  profited 
by  the  teaching ;  how  he  had  kept  continually  re 
peating  to  himself  by  the  way  the  portentous 
words,  "Save,  or  be  a  slave;"  how  each  well- 
stocked  homestead  that  they  passed  had  served 
to  remind  him  only  of  the  thrift  of  the  inhabitants ; 
how  he  had  noted,  too,  in  every  factory,  the  long 
course  of  industry  and  self-denial  that  had  amass 
ed  the  riches  to  raise  it,  as  well  as  the  enterprise 
that  had  devoted  the  wealth  to  such  a  purpose ; 
and  how,  as  some  stray  beggar  that  they  chanced 
to  meet  on  the  road  asked  them  to  "  help  him  to 
a  quarter  of  a  dollar,"  the  little  fellow  (when  he 
had  given  him  as  much  as  he  could,  spare)  would 
first  want  to  know  whether  he  was  a  born-beggar 
or  not,  and  then  proceed  to  lecture  the  vagabond 
soundly  for  liking  beggary  better  than  work,  and 
preferring  to  remain  the  lowest  slave  of  all  rather 
than  save. 

"  Bless  the  boy !"  the  mother  cried ;  "  I'm  glad 
he  gave  the  poor  soul  something  more  than 
words,  though.  But  I  always  told  you,  Josh — 
you  know  I  did — that  you  were  mistaken  in  our 
Ben." 


AN    ALARM.  161 

"  Have  heed,  brother,  have  heed !"  was  all  the 
father  said  in  reply.  "  Beware  lest  you  beget  in 
the  lad  a  lust  for  '  treasures  that  moth  and  rust 
doth  corrupt.' " 

"  Never  fear,  Josiah ;  I  have  not  done  with  my 
little  godson  yet.  I  know  well  what  I  took  upon 
myself  when  I  became  sponsor  for  the  sins  of  the 
child,  and  do  you  wait  till  my  worldly  lessons  are 
ended,"  the  uncle  made  answer. 

"Not  done  with  the  boy  yet,  Benjamin !"  ex 
claimed  the  father.  "  Why,  how  much  longer  will 
you  keep  him  away  from  earning  a  crust  for  him 
self  ?  It's  high  time  he  should  be  out  in  the 
world,  for  a  lad  learns  more  by  a  day's  practice 
than  a  whole  month's  precepts." 

"  Ay,  send  him  to  sea  on  a  mere  raft  of  loose 
principles,  efo,"  cried  Uncle  Ben,  "do  —  child  as 
he  is — without  any  moral  compass  to  show  him 
the  cardinal  points  of  the  world,  or  hardly  any 
knowledge  of  the  heavens  either,  by  which  to 
shape  his  course :  that's  the  way  to  insure  an  easy 
and  prosperous  voyage  for  the  youngster,  certain 
ly —  that's  the  way  to  start  a  boy  in  life;"  and 
the  uncle  laughed  ironically  at  the  notion. 

"But  what  else  do  you  want  to  teach  the  lad, 
Benjamin  ?"  asked  the  mother,  anxious  to  prevent 
a  discussion  at  that  hour  of  the  night. 

"  What  else,  Abiah  ?"  echoed  the  brother-in- 
law.  "  Why,  I  want  to  make  a  man  of  him ;  as 
yet  I've  taught  him  to  be  little  better  than  an  ant. 
But  do  you  leave  him  to  me  only  for  another 
week,  and  a  fine  right-minded  little  gentleman  he 
shall  be,  I  promise  you.  Now  look  here,  both  of 
you :  I  taught  the  boy  first  that  he  must  either 
work,  beg,  or  starve." 

"  Good  !"  nodded  Dame  Franklin. 

"  Then  I  taught  him  how  to  make  his  work 
light  and  pleasant." 

L 


162  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

"  Good !"  repeated  the  dame. 

"  And  after  that,  I  taught  him  how  to  make 
the  produce  of  his  work  the  means  of  future  ease 
and  comfort  to  him." 

"Very  good!"  Dame  Franklin  ejaculated. 

"  I've  shown  him,  in  fact,"  added  Uncle  Benja 
min,  "not  only  how  he  must  slave  in  order  to 
live,  but  how,  by  putting  his  heart  into  his  labor, 
he  may  lighten  the  slavery ;  and  also  how,  by  con 
tinual  saving,  he  may  one  day  put  an  end  to  all 
farther  slaving  for  the  rest  of  his  life." 

"  Yes,  brother,"  added  the  stern  old  Puritan 
tallow-chandler,  "  you've  taught  the  boy  how  to 
become  a  rich  man,"  and  he  laid  a  scornful  em 
phasis  upon  the  epithet. 

"  Ay,  Josiah,  I  have,"  meekly  replied  the  other ; 
"  and  now  I  want  to  teach  him  how  to  become  a 
good  one..  I  have  the  same  scorn  for  mere  riches 
and  money-grubbing  as  yourself,  brother — a  scorn 
that  is  surpassed  only  by  my  abomination  of  will 
ful  beggary  and  voluntary  serfdom.  Is  there  not 
a  medium,  Josh,  between  the  overweening  love 
of  wealth  and  the  reckless  disregard  of  it — a  mid 
dle  course  between  a  despotic  delight  in  that 
worldly  power  which  comes  of  riches,  and  the 
servile  abandonment  of  ourselves  to  that  wretch 
ed  bondage  which  is  necessarily  connected  with 
poverty  ?  Surely  a  man  is  a  dog  who  loves  to  be 
fed  continually  by  others ;  and  there  is,  to  my 
mind,  no  higher  worldliness  that  a  young  man 
can  learn  than  to  have  faith  in  his  own  powers ; 
to  know  that  the  world's  prizes  of  ease  and  com 
petence  are  open  to  him,  if  he  will  but  toil  dili 
gently  and  "heartily,  and  husband  carefully  and 
discreetly.  To  teach  a  lad  to  be  self-reliant  is  to 
teach  him  to  have  a  soul  above  beggary ;  it  is  to 
make  an  independent  gentleman  of  him,  even 
while  he  is  laboring  for  his  living." 


AN   ALARM.  163 

"  But  have  a  care,  brother,  I  say  again,  have  a 
care  of  worldly  pride  and  worldly  lust,"  inter 
posed  the  primitive  old  father,  gravely.  "  I  would 
rather  have  my  son  the  meek  and  uncomplaining 
pauper  in  his  old  age,  than  an  overbearing  purse- 
proud  fool ;  the  one  tired  of  life  and  sighing  for 
the  sweet  rest  of  heaven,  and  the  other  so  wed 
ded  to  the  world,  and  all  its  pomps  and  vanities, 
that  he  wants  no  other  heaven  than  the  gross  lux 
uries  of  the  earth." 

"  I  detest  mere  worldlyism,  Josh,  as  much  as 
you  do,"  returned  his  brother  Benjamin.  "  But 
because  it  is  base  and  wicked  to  be  utterly  world 
ly,  it  by  no  means  follows  that  it  is  noble  and 
good  to  be  utterly  unworldly.  To  despise  the 
world  about  us  because  there  is  another  and  a 
better  world  to  come,  is  as  wrong  as  not  to  value 
life  because  we  hope  to  live  hereafter.  And  as  it 
is  our  duty  to  promote  our  health  by  conforming 
our  habits  to  the  laws  of  bodily  welfare,  so  is  it 
our  duty  to  conform  our  pursuits  to  the  laws  of 
wrorldly  happiness — laws  which  are  as  much  part 
of  God's  ordination  as  the  conditions  of  health, 
or  the  succession  of  the  seasons  themselves.  The 
laws  of  worldly  life  are  written  on  the  tablets  of 
the  world,  and  the  handwriting  is  unmistakably 
the  Creator's  own.  There  was  no  need  of  any 
special  revelation  to  make  them  known  to  us.  If 
we  will  but  open  our  eyes,  we  may  read  them  in 
letters  of  light ;  and  surely  they  are  as  much  for 
the  guidance  of  our  worldly  lives  as  the  Biblical 
commandments  are  for  the  regulation  of  our  spir 
itual  ones." 

"  There  is  no  gainsaying  your  brother's  words, 
Josh,'5  urged  the  dame,  for  she  was  too  anxious 
to  get  to  bed  to  say  a  syllable  that  was  likely  to 
prolong  the  argument ;  and  then,  by  way  of  a  gen 
tle  hint  as  to  the  hour,  the  housewife  proceeded 


164  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

to  place  the  tin  candlesticks  on  the  table  before 
the  two  brothers. 

"  Well,  Ben,  the  days  of  monkish  folly  are  past," 
responded  Josiah  as  he  rose  from  his  seat, "  and 
people  no  longer  believe  that  true  philosophy  puts 
up  with  a  tub  for  a  home.  There  may  be  as  much 
worldly  pride,  too,  in  the  austerity  of  a  hermit's 
life  as  in  the  pomp  of  Solomon  '  arrayed  in  all  his 
glory.'  Nevertheless,  the  heart  of  man  is  fond 
enough  of  the  world's  gewgaws,  without  needing 
any  schooling  in  the  matter." 

"  Can  that  be  truly  said,  Josiah,  so  long  as  three 
fourths  of  the  world  remain  steeped  to  the  very 
lips  in  poverty?"  TJncle  Ben  calmly  inquired. 
"All  men  may  covet  wealth,  brother,  but  that  few 
know  the  way  to  win  even  a  competence  is  prov 
en  by  the  misery  of  the  great  mass  of  the  people. 
I  want  to  see  comfort  reign  throughout  the  world 
instead  of  squalor ;  competence  rather  than  want ; 
self-reliance  rather  than  beggary ;  independence 
rather  than  serfdom.  I  wish  to  teach  a  man  to 
get  money  rather  than  want  it  or  beg  for  it ;  to 
get  money  with  honor  and  dignity ;  to  husband 
it  with  honor  and  dignity ;  and,  what  is  more, 
to  spend  it  with  honor  and  dignity  too.  And, 
please  God,  that  is  the  high  lesson  your  boy  shall 
learn  before  I  have  done  with  him." 

"  Be  it  so,  then,  brother,  be  it  so ;  and  may  he 
prove  the  fine,  honorable,  and  righteous  man  we 
both  desire  to  see  him,"  cried  the  father. 

"  Amen !"  added  the  mother  ;  and  then,  with  a 
"God  bless  you,"  the  brothers  parted  for  the 
night. 


VOTING   BEN   GIVES   1118   SISTER   AN   ACCOUNT  OF  HIS  TRAVELS. 


THE   GREAT   RAREE-SHOW.  16T 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE   GREAT   RAREE-SHOW. 

YOUNG  Ben,  on  the  morrow,  was  a  different 
lad  from  the  tired,  drowsy,  and  taciturn  little 
traveler  of  the  previous  night ;  for  no  sooner  was 
sister  Deborah  below  stairs  arranging  for  the 
morning  meal,  than  he  was  by  her  side,  following 
her,  now  to  the  wood-house,  then  to  the  pantry, 
and  afterward  to  the  parlor,  with  a  shoe  on  one 
of  his  hands  and  a  brush  in  the  other,  busily  en 
gaged  in  the  double  office  of  disburdening  his 
mind  of  the  heavy  load  of  wonders  he  had  seen 
on  his  travels,  and  getting  rid  at  the  same  time 
of  a  little  of  the  mud  he  had  brought  back  with 
him  from  the  country. 

Then,  as  the  girl  began  to  set  the  basins  and 
the  platters  on  the  table,  he  fell  to  dodging  her 
about  the  room  as  she  rambled  round  and  round, 
and  chattering  to  her  the  while  of  the  curious  old 
French  town  of  St.  Louis,  but  still  polishing  away 
as  he  chattered.  And  though  Deborah  insisted 
that  he  must  not  clean  his  shoes  over  the  break 
fast-table,  on  he  went,  scrubbing  incessantly,  with 
his  head  on  one  side,  and  talking  to  the  girl  by 
jerks,  first  of  that  darling  Jacky,  the  pony  they 
had  borrowed  of  the  French  farmer,  and  next  of 
the  "  ark"  in  which  they  had  descended  the  great 
Ohio  River. 

When,  too,  the  boy  retired  with  the  little  maid 
to  assist  her  in  opening  the  store,  there  he  would 
stand  in  the  street,  with  one  of  the  shutters  in  his 
hand  resting  on  the  stones,  as  he  described  to  her 


168  YOUNG   BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

the  herd  of  buffaloes,  and  flocks  of  wild  turkeys, 
and  the  deer  and  pelicans  that  he  had  seen  in  the 
prairies.  Nor  would  he  even  cease  his  prattling 
during  the  boiling  of  the  milk ;  for  while  Debo 
rah  stood  craning  over  the  simmering  saucepan, 
the  eager  lad  was  close  against  her  shoulder,  jab 
bering  away,  now  of  the  lusciousness  of  the  cus 
tard  apples,  then  of  the  delicacy  of  the  prairie 
plums  and  grapes,  and  "only  wishing"  she  had 
been  with  uncle  and  himself  at  their  gipsy-dinner 
off  venison-hams  and  wild  fruit  in  the  great  hunt 
ing  plains. 

During  breakfast,  however,  both  the  manner 
and  the  matter  of  the  boy's  discourse  were 
changed  ;  for  no  sooner  did  the  father  and  moth 
er  make  their  appearance,  than  the  little  fellow 
grew  graver  in  tone,  and  talked  only  of  such 
things  as  he  fancied  his  parents  would  be  glad  to 
hear  from  him.  In  his  desire,  however,  to  let  his 
father  see  the  new  man  he  had  become,  and  what 
fine  principles  he  had  acquired  by  his  journey,  the 
boy,  boy-like,  went  into  such  raptures  upon  the 
art  of  money-making,  and  the  use  of  capital  in  the 
world,  that  the  simple-minded  old  Puritan  kept 
shaking  his  head  mournfully  at  his  brother  Ben 
as  he  listened  to  the  hard,  worldly  philosophy — 
for  it  sounded  even  ten-fold  harder  and  harsher 
from  the  lips  of  the  mere  child  expounding  it. 
So,  when  the  exigencies  of  the  shop  summoned 
the  candle-maker  from  the  table,  Josiah  could  not 
refrain  from  whispering  in  the  ear  of  the  elder 
Benjamin,  as  he  passed  behind  his  chair,  "You 
have  a  deal  to  do  and  to  undo  yet,  brother  Ben, 
before  you  make  a  fine  man  of  the  lad." 

But  once  alone  with  his  mother,  the  little  fellow 
was  again  a  different  boy ;  for  then,  as  he  jumped 
into  her  lap,  and  hugged  the  dame  (much  to  the 


THE    GREAT   RAREE-SHOW.  169 

discomfiture  of  her  clean  mob-cap  and  tidy  mus 
lin  kerchief),  he  told  how  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  become  a  rich  man,  and  how  happy  he 
meant  to  make  them  all  by-and-by ;  how  she  was 
to  have  a  "  help"  to  do  all  the  work  of  the  house 
for  her;  how  he  meant  to  buy  Deborah  a  pony 
(just  like  dear  old  Jacky)  with  the  first  money  he 
got ;  and  how  Uncle  Benjamin  was  to  live  with 
them  always  at  the  nice  house  they  were  to  have 
in  the  country,  with  a  prime  large  orchard  to  it ; 
and  how,  too,  he  was  to  purchase  a  ship  for  Cap 
tain  Holmes  (it  wouldn't  cost  such  a  great  deal 
of  money,  he  was  sure),  so  that  the  captain  might 
have  a  vessel  of  his  own,  and  take  them  with  him 
sometimes  to  any  part  of  the  world  they  wanted 
to  see.  All  of  which  it  dearly  delighted  the 
mother's  heart  to  hear,  not  because  she  had  the 
least  faith  in  the  fond  plans  of  the  boy  ever  being 
realized,  but  because  his  mere  wish  to  see  them 
all  happy  made  her  love  him  the  more. 

At  last  it  was  Uncle  Benjamin's  turn  for  a  tete- 
d-tete  with  the  little  man  (for  the  household  duties 
soon  called  the  dame  away  from  the  parlor)  ; 
whereupon  the  godfather  proceeded  to  impress 
upon  his  pupil  the  necessity  of  continuing  their 
lessons  with  as  little  delay  as  possible,  telling  him 
that  his  father  had  given  them  only  another  week's 
grace,  and  adding  that  there  was  much  still  for 
the  little  fellow  to  learn  in  the  time. 

"  What !  more  to  be  learned,  uncle  ?"  cried  the 
astounded  youth,  who  was  under  the  impression 
that  he  was  well  enough  crammed  with  worldly 
wisdom  to  be  started  in  life  at  once.  "Surely 
there  can  be  nothing  else  for  a  fellow  to  know. 
Why,  you've  taught  me  how  to  get  on  in  the 
world,  and  how  to  end  as  a  rich  man  too,  and 
what  more  a  chap  can  want  I'm  sure  I  can't 


170  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

"  Of  course  you  can't,  little  Mr.  Clear-sighted," 
replied  the  uncle,  as  he  seized  his  godson  by  the 
shoulders,  and  shook  him  playfully  as  he  spoke. 
"I've  taught  you  how  to  get  money,  lad,  but 
that's  only  the  first  half  of  life's  lesson  ;  the  main 
portion  of  the  problem  is  how  to  spend  it." 

"  Well,  that  is  good !"  laughed  out  young  Ben 
jamin,  tickled  with  the  apparent  ludicrousness 
of  any  lessons  being  needed  for  such  a  purpose. 
"  Why,  every  boy  in  the  world  knows  how  to  do 
that,  without  any  teaching  at  all." 

"It  comes  to  him  as  naturally  as  a  game  at 
leap-frog,  I  suppose,"  quietly  interjected  the  god 
father,  with  a  smile. 

"  Of  course  it  does,"  the  youngster  rejoined. 
"Now  you  just  give  me  half  a  dollar,  uncle,"  he 
added,  grinning  at  the  impudence  of  his  own 
argument,  "and  I'll  soon  let  you  see  that  I  know 
how  to  spend  it." 

"  Soh !  you'd  spend  it  directly  you  got  it,  would 
you ;  eh,  you  young  rogue  ?  Is  that  all  the  good 
that  is  to  come  of  our  long  journey  to  the  prai 
ries  ?"  ejaculated  the  godfather,  as  he  cuffed  the 
lad,  first  on  one  side  of  his  head  and  then  on  the 
other,  as  sportively  and  gently  as  a  kitten  does  a 
ball. 

"  Oh  no — no,  to  be  sure,  uncle,"  stammered  out 
the  abashed  youngster ;  "  that  is,  I  meant  to  say, 
I — I  should  put  it  by  and  save  it,  of  course." 

"  What,  hoard  it,  eh  ?"  dryly  observed  the  oth 
er,  as  he  eyed  the  lad  over  the  top  of  his  specta 
cles,  that  were  almost  as  big  as  watch-glasses. 

"  No,  no.  I  didn't  mean  that,  either.  You're 
so  sharp  at  taking  a  chap  up.  I  meant  to  say" 
(and  the  boy,  to  set  himself  right,  shook  himself 
almost  as  violently  as  a  Newfoundland  dog  just 
out  of  the  water),  "  I — I  should  put  the  money  in 
the  savings-bank,  and  let  it  grow  and  grow  there 


THE   GREAT   KAREE-SHOW.  171 

at  interest,  just  as  you  said  the  corn  does,  you 
know,  uncle." 

"  Well,  what  then,  lad  ?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"  Why  then  I  should  keep  on  putting  more  to 
it  as  fast  as  I  got  it,  and  let  it  all  go  on  increasing 
together,"  was  the  ready  answer. 

"  Well,  and  what  then  ?"  inquired  Uncle  Ben. 

"  Why,  when  I'd  saved  up  enough,  I  should 
use  it  as  capital  to  start  me  in  some  business,  and 
so  make  it  the  means  of  getting  me  more  money," 
responded  the  youth,  who  was  now  able  to  recall 
the  previous  lesson. 

"  Well,  and  what  then  ?"  the  old  man  demand 
ed  once  more. 

"  Why  then — then — oh,  then  I  should  get  more 
money  still,  to  be  sure.  But  what  makes  you 
keep  on  saying  '  Well,  and  what  then  ?'  in  such 
a  tantalizing  way  as  you  do,  uncle  ?"  added  the 
pupil,  growing  impatient  under  the  continued 
questioning. 

"  Yes ;  and  when  your  capital  had  yielded  you 
'  more  money  still,'  as  you  say,  what  then,  lad  ?" 
persisted  the  catechist. 

"  Why  then  I  should  give  up  business  altogeth 
er — and — and  enjoy  myself.  Yes,  that's  what  I 
should  do,  I  can  tell  you,"  was  the  candid  reply. 

"Ay,  boy,  enjoy  yourself!"  echoed  the  elder 
Benjamin,  with  a  sarcastic  toss  of  the  head ;  "  en 
joy  yourself!  that  is  to  say,  you'd  proceed  to 
spend  the  wealth  that  it  had  cost  you  the  labor 
of  a  life  to  accumulate.  Or  maybe  you'd  spend 
only  the  interest  of  your  money,  though  that  is 
almost  the  same  thing ;  for  the  interest,  duly  hus 
banded,  would  make  your  stock  in  hand  grow 
even  greater  still." 

^"Well,  there's  no  harm  in  a  fellow  enjoying 
himself  after  he's  done  his  work,  is  there  ?"  the 
bewildered  youth  demanded,  in  a  half  surly  tone. 


172  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

"  True,  Ben,  there  is  no  harm  in  enjoyment  that 
brings  no  harm  with  it  either  to  ourselves  or  oth 
ers,"  responded  the  mentor.  "  But  you  see,  my 
little  man,"  he  went  on,  "  the  end  of  the  argu 
ment  is  the  same  as  the  beginning ;  the  last  ques 
tion  is  but  a  repetition  of  the  first :  '  When  you've 
§ot  your  money,  what  will  you  do  with  it?' 
pend  it,  you  say ;  and  spend  it  you,  or  some  one 
else,  assuredly  will  in  the  long  run.  Such  is  but 
the  natural  result  of  all  money-getting.  We  be 
gin  with  saving,  and  finish  at  the  very  point  which 
we  avoid  at  starting,  only  that  we  may  have  more 
money  ultimately  to  spend.  Still,  therefore,  the 
query  is,  How  will  you  spend  your  money  when 
you've  got  it?  In  what  manner  will  you  enjoy 
yourself,  as  you  call  it?" 

The  boy  stared  in  his  uncle's  face  as  much  as  to 
say  what  ever  is  he  driving  at. 

However,  the  old  man  paid  no  heed  to  the  won 
derment  of  the  lad,  but  proceeded  as  follows : 
"  The  means  of  enjoyment,  my  son,  are  infinite  in 
the  world ;  some  of  these  are  purchasable,  and 
others  not  to  be  had  for  money.  Creature  com 
forts  and  articles  of  luxury,  for  instance,  may  be 
bought,  but  these  are  among  the  lowest  and  most 
transient  of  human  pleasures ;  whereas  love,  the 
purest  and  most  lasting  of  all  earthly  happiness,  is 
beyond  all  price.  We  can  no  more  bargain  for 
that  than  we  can  for  the  sunshine  which  is  sent 
down  from  heaven  to  gladden  alike  the  poorest 
and  the  richest  of  mankind.  Nevertheless,  none 
but  an  ascetic  will  deny  that  money  is  one  of  the 
great  means  of  pleasure  in  this  life ;  and  if  the 
end  of  money-getting  be  to  obtain  an  extra  amount 
of  enjoyment  in  the  world,  surely  we  can  not  mar 
ket  well,  and  get  a  good  pennyworth  for  our  pen 
ny,  unless  we  know  something  about  the  different 
qualities  of  the  article  we  are  going  to  purchase. 


THE   GREAT   RAREE-SHOW.  173 

If  we  can  not  distinguish  between  what  is  really 
good  and  what  is  comparatively  worthless,  how 
shall  we  prevent  being  cheated  ?  And  if  we  do 
get  cheated  of  our  prize  in  the  end,  after  all  our 
toil  and  trouble,  all  our  stinting  and  saving,  why, 
then  the  labor  of  a  whole  life  is  wasted." 

"  But,  uncle,"  young  Benjamin  interjected, 
"surely  every  body  knows  what  is  pleasure  to 
them  without  any  teaching  at  all." 

"  They  do,  Ben — instinctively ;  but  what  they 
do  not  know  is  what  they  have  never  given  per 
haps  a  moment's  thought  to,  namely,  the  diifer- 
ent  forms  of  pleasure  of  which  their  natures  are 
susceptible.  In  their  greed  to  have  their  fill  of 
the  first  gratification  that  has  tickled  them,  they 
have  never  paused  to  weigh  one  form  of  enjoy 
ment  with  another — never  staid  to  learn  which 
yields  the  purest  delight  for  the  least  cost,  or 
which  has  the  smallest  amount  of  evil,  or  the 
greatest  amount  of  good  connected  with  it.  What 
is  pleasant  to  one  person  is  often  foolish,  or  even 
hateful  to  another ;  and  it  is  so  simply  because  the 
sources  of  happiness  appear  different,  not  only  to 
different  minds,  but  even  to  the  same  mind  at  dif 
ferent  periods  of  life.  What  the  child  likes  the 
graybeard  despises ;  what  the  fool  prizes  the  sage 
scorns.  You  will  understand  by-and-by,  my  boy, 
that  the  art  of  spending  money  wisely  is  even 
more  difficult  than  the  art  of  getting  it  honorably." 

"I  think  I  can  see  a  little  bit  of  what  you 
mean,  uncle,"  added  the  youngster ;  and  then,  aft 
er  a  slight  pause,  he  asked%  "  But  how  are  you 
going  to  impress  the  lesson,  as  you  call  it,  upon 
me  this  time — eh,  unky  ?"  he  inquired,  in  a  coax 
ing  tone,  for  he  was  satisfied  his  godfather  had 
some  new  sight  in  store  for  him  by  way  of  en 
forcing  the  precept. 

"  I  am  going  to  show  you  this  time,  Ben,  a  cu- 


174  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FBANKLIN. 

rious  collection  of  animals.  I  purpose  taking  you 
through  our  great  Museum  of  Natural  History," 
said  the  old  man. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  dear  unky,  thank  you !"  ex 
claimed  the  delighted  pupil,  as  he  rose  and  curl 
ed  his  arm  about  his  uncle's  neck.  "  Are  we  to 
set  off  to-day  ?  I'm  so  fond  of  seeing  animals,  you 
don't  know.  Shall  we  see  any  monkeys,  unky,  eh  ?" 

"  Ay,  scores,  boy,  scores !  bears  and  sloths  too ; 
wild  asses  and  laughing  hyenas ;  mocking-birds 
and  gulls ;  butcher-birds  and  scavenger-birds  as 
well,"  Uncle  Benjamin  made  answer,  with  a  sly 
smile  twitching  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

The  boy  chafed  his  hands  together  in  anticipa 
tion  of  the  treat  as  he  cried,  "CJh,  won't  it  be  jolly 
—that's  all!" 

"  But,  Ben,  the  animals  I  shall  show  you  are  not 
preserved  in  glass  cases,"  the  old  man  added. 

"Ah!  that's  right.  I  can't  bear  those  stupid 
stuffed  things.  I  like  them  to  be  all  alive  and 
roaring,  I  do,"  was  the  simple  rejoinder. 

"  Nor  are  they  confined  in  cages,  with  learned 
names,  descriptive  of  the  order  and  family  they 
belong  to,  stuck  up  over  their  dens.  No  natural 
ist  as  yet  has  classified  them ;  none  given  us  a 
catalogue  of  their  habits,  or  of  the  localities  they 
infest;"  and,  as  the  godfather  concluded  the 
speech,  the  boy  looked  at  him  so  steadfastly  in 
the  face  that  the  old  man  was  unable  to  keep 
from  laughing  any  longer. 

"  Come,  come,  now,"  cried  the  lad,  "you're  hav 
ing  a  bit  of  fun  with  me,  sir,  that  you  are.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  but  that  they  are  no  animals 
after  all." 

"  Animals  they  assuredly  are,  Ben,"  responded 
the  uncle,  "  but  tame  ones,  and  to  be  seen  almost 
every  day  in  that  strangest  of  all  menageries,  hu 
man  society." 


PLEASTJKE-HUNTING.  175 

"  Oh !  then  they're  nothing  but  men,  I  sup 
pose.  What  a  shame  of  you  now,  unky,  to  make 
game  of  a  chap  in  such  a  way !"  was  all  that  the 
disappointed  lad  could  murmur  out,  as  he  drew 
his  arm,  half  in  dudgeon,  from  round  the  old  man's 
neck. 

"  Well,  lad,"  the  other  remonstrated,  "  the  men 
I  wish  to  show  you  are  as  much  natural  curiosi 
ties  in  their  way  as  any  animals  ever  seen  at  a 
fair ;  and  as  you  can  find  delight  in  gazing  at  a 
monkey  cage,  and  watching  the  tricks  and  antics 
of  creatures  that  bear  an  ugly  resemblance  to 
yourself,  so,  among  the  strange  human  animals 
that  I  shall  take  you  to  see,  you  may  observe  the 
counterpart  of  your  own  character  portrayed  as 
in  a  distorting  glass,  and  behold  in  the  freaks  and 
follies  of  each  the  very  mimicry  of  your  own  na 
ture,  with  your  own  destiny,  if  you  will,  aped  be 
fore  your  eyes." 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

PLEASURE-HUNTING. 

THE  couple  were  not  long  starting  on  their  cu 
rious  errand. 

Little  Ben  was  perhaps  even  more  bewildered 
than  he  had  ever  been.  What  could  his  uncle 
want  to  show  him  a  lot  of  queer,  strange  men 
for?  and  what  could  they  possibly  have  to  do 
with  teaching  him  how  to  spend  his  money  ? 

Still  there  was  some  novelty  to  be  seen,  and 
the  sight  involved  an  excursion  somewhere;  so 
there  was  stimulus  enough  to  make  the  boy  any 
thing  but  an  unwilling  party  to  the  expedition. 

The  uncle,  on  the  other  hand,  was  busy  with 
very  different  thoughts  as  the  two  trotted  through 


1T6  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

the  streets  of  the  town.  He  had  so  much  to  show 
the  little  man,  and  in  so  short  a  time  too,  that  he 
was  at  a  loss  how  to  shape  the  heterogeneous 
mass  of  curiosities  into  any  thing  like  method. 

First  the  old  gentleman  would  turn  down  one 
street,  then  stop  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  it,  and 
after  gnawing  at  his  thumb-nail,  with  his  head  on 
one  side  like  a  cat  at  a  fish-bone,  dart  off  quite  as 
suddenly  in  a  diametrically  opposite  direction. 
Next  he  thought  it  would  be  better  to  begin  this 
way ;  "  and  yet  no !"  he  would  say  to  himself,  as 
he  halted  a  second  time,  and  stared  for  a  minute 
or  two  intently  at  the  paving-stones — "  that  way 
we  shall  have  to  go  over  the  same  ground  twice;" 
so  he  decided  he  would  take  the  lad  first  to  see 
that  old — and  yet,  "  stay  again !"  said  he ;  "  we 
ought  by  rights  to  see  that  one  last  of  all."  And 
accordingly  the  route  was  altered  once  more,  and 
little  Ben  had  to  wheel  round  after  his  uncle  for 
the  fourth  or  fifth  time,  and  make  straight  away 
for  some  other  quarter  of  the  city. 

Then,  as  the  old  man  kept  hurrying  along,  suck 
ing  the  handle  of  his  cane  in  his  abstraction,  and 
indulging  in  a  rapid  succession  of  steps  as  short 
and  quick  as  a  waiter's,  he  was  continually  talk 
ing  to  himself,  muttering  either,  "  Let  me  see ! 
let  me  see !  where  does  that  queer  old  fellow  live 
now  ?"  or  saying  to  himself,  "  Didn't  somebody 
or  other  tell  me  that  Adam  Tonks  had  left  the 
cellar  he  used  to  rent  in  Back  Street  ?"  or  else  he 
was  mentally  inquiring  in  what  quarter  of  the 
town  it  was  he  had  met  with  some  other  odd 
character  some  time  back. 

At  length,  however,  Uncle  Benjamin  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  introduce  the  boy  to  the  curiosi 
ties  of  his  acquaintance  just  as  they  fell  in  their 
way,  and  trust  to  circumstances,  as  they  went  the 
rounds  of  the  town,  either  to  recall  or  present  to 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  17T 

them  such  peculiarities  as  he  wished  to  bring  un 
der  the  observation  of  his  little  pupil. 

"  Now  remember,  Ben,"  he  said,  in  a  half  whis 
per,  as  he  stood  on  the  door-step  of  the  first  house 
he  was  about  to  visit,  with  the  latch  in  his  hand, 
"  remember,  I  am  not  going  to  show  you  any  hu 
man  monstrosities,  nor  any  of  the  more  extrava 
gant  freaks  of  nature  among  mankind,  but  merely 
to  let  you  see  some  of  the  broadly-marked  differ 
ences  of  character  in  men;  to  show  you,  indeed, 
in  how  many  diverse  ways  human  beings  can 
spend  their  money — or,  what  is  the  same  thing, 
their  time ;  to  point  out  to  you  what  different 
notions  of  pleasure  there  are  among  the  tribe  of 
so-called  rational  creatures,  and  how,  though  all 
the  big  babies  in  the  world  are  running  after  the 
same  butterfly,  they  pursue  it  like  a  knot  of  school 
boys,  dodging  it  in  a  hundred  different  ways,  and 
each  believing,  as  he  clutches  at  the  bright-colored 
little  bit  of  life,  that  he  has  got  it  safe  within  his 
grasp." 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  1.* 

"  Give  me  joy,  Master  Franklin  !"  cried  a  little 
bald-headed  man,  who  was  busy  at  a  table,  as  the 
couple  entered  the  room,  unpacking  the  contents 
of  what  seemed  to  be  an  enormous  green  sand 
wich-box,  filled  with  grass  and  weeds.  Indeed, 
so  busy  was  the  host  with  the  green  stuff  spread 
before  him,  that  he  no  sooner  withdrew  his  palm 
from  the  grasp  of  the  uncle  than  he  set  to  work 
again  examining  minutely  the  little  wild  flower 
he  held  in  the  other  hand.  "  Give  me  joy,  I  say ! 
I  have  discovered  the  only  specimen  of  the  poteti- 
tilla,  or  common  silver-weed,  that  has  yet  been 
found  in  the  New  World.  There  it  is,  sir ;"  and 
the  old  man  held  it  tenderly  between  his  finger 
*  See  Frontispiece. 

M 


ITS  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

and  thumb,  as  he  eyed  it  with  increased  pride ; 
"  and  a  I — I — lovely  specimen  it  is,  I  can  assure 
you.  Now  you  wouldn't  believe  it,  perhaps,  but 
I  wouldn't  take  a  thousand  guineas  for  tliat,  mere 
weed  as  it  is.  Only  think  of  that,  my  little  chap — 
a  thousand  guineas  ;"  and  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
young  Benjamin's  head  as  he  spoke.  "A  good 
deal  of  money  that,  isn't  it,  my  little  man  ?  But 
I've  been  hunting  after  that  same  weed  for  years 
— many  years,  my  dear  boy — and  traveled,  I  dare 
say,  thousands  of  miles  in  search  of  it.  I  knew  it 
must  exist  in  North  America  somewhere,  and  I 
was  determined  to  go  down  to  posterity  as  the 
discoverer  of  it,"  and  the  little  ferrety  man  beat 
the  air  with  his  fist  as  he  said  the  words.  "  So 
you  see  what  patience  and  perseverance  will  do, 
my  good  lad. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  be,  eh  ?"  he  inquired. 
"  Ha !  they  should  make  a  botanist  of  a  fine  little 
fellow  like  you,  with  a  head  like  yours.  No  pur 
suit  like  that  in  the  world — the  greatest  pleasure 
in  life — hunting  after  the  wild  flowers  and  plants ; 
always  out  in  the  open  air,  either  up  on  the  hills 
or  down  in  the  valleys,  or  wandering  by  the 
brook-side,  or  along  the  beautiful  lanes,  or  else 
buried  in  the  woods.  You'd  have  to  go  fine  long 
walks  into  the  country  then,  my  little  man ;  but 
you  like  walking,  I  suppose.  Bless  you,  I'm  out 
for  weeks  at  a  time,  and  think  myself  well  repaid 
for  all  my  trouble  if  I  can  only  bring  home  a  rare 
specimen  or  two.  Look  here,  little  vvhat's-your- 
name,"  he  went  on,  talking  so  fast  to  the  boy  that 
the  words  came  tumbling  one  over  the  other  out 
of  his  mouth ;  "  here  is  a  little  bit  of  my  handi 
work."  And  the  botanist  slid  from  the  top  of 
an  old  bureau  near  him  a  large  folio  volume,  con 
sisting  of  sheets  of  cartridge  paper  bound  togeth 
er,  and  then  spreading  it  open  at  one  side  of  the 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  179 

table,  he  showed  the  lad  that  there  was  a  dried 
and  flattened  plant  stuck  upon  every  page. 
"  There  /"  he  cried,  exultingly,  with  such  an  em 
phasis  upon  the  word  that  it  sounded  like  a  deep 
sigh,  "  look  at  that,  my  man  !  but  it  hasn't  a 
twentieth  part  of  the  plants  I've  collected  in  my 
time ;  though  where's  the  wonder  ?  I've  been  at 
it  all  my  life — ever  since  I  was  a  boy  of  your  age, 
and  walked  thousands  and  thousands  of  miles, 
ay,  and  spent  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  guineas 
to  complete  my  collection.  There,  my  fine  fel 
low,  that's  the  Campanula  sylvestris"  he  con 
tinued,  chattering  as  he  turned  over  the  pages  be 
fore  the  boy;  "that's  the  Cram.be  maritima,  or 
common  sea  colewort,  and  a  very  fine  specimen 
too."  And  so  he  kept  gabbling  on  until  Uncle 
Benjamin  thanked  the  old  gentleman  for  his  kind 
ness  to  the  lad,  and  said  they  would  not  intrude 
on  his  time  any  longer. 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  2. 

"  What,  Adam !  in  the  old  state,  eh  ?"  cried 
Uncle  Benjamin,  as  he  and  his  nephew  descended 
the  steps  of  a  dark  cellar  in  one  of  the  back  streets 
of  Boston,  and  found  a  man  there  asleep  as  he  sat, 
with  his  unkempt  head  resting  on  his  elbow,  at 
the  edge  of  a  small  deal  table,  and  with  a  piece  of 
salt  fish  lying  untouched  on  a  broken  plate  by  his 
side. 

The  uncle  had  to  shake  the  sleeper  violently  to 
rouse  him,  whereupon  the  man  stared,  with  his 
bloodshot  eyes,  vacantly  at  his  visitor  for  a  time, 
and  then,  with  a  scowl,  flung  his  head  back  upon 
his  arm  as  he  growled  out,  "Well,  and  if  I  am  in 
the  same  state,  what's  that  to  you  ?  You  don't 
pay  for  the  jacky,  do  you?  Besides,  you  like 
what  I  hate — psalm-singing  ;  and  I  like  what  you 
hate — a  drop  of  good  stuff— like  they  seU  at  "The 


180  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

Pear-tree'  round  the  corner.  Dwn  vivimus  viva- 
7)1118  is  my  motto,  and  you  don't  know  what  that 
means,  Master  Franklin,  for  a  pot  now.  Come,  I 
say,  mate,  are  you  game  to  stand  a  quartern  for  a 
fellow  this  morning  —  yuck  ?"  and,  as  the  man 
said  the  words,  he  raised  his  head  again ;  and 
then  little  Benjamin  (for  the  boy's  eyes  had  got 
used  to  the  dusk  of  the  place  by  this  time)  could 
see  that  the  drunkard's  clothes  hung  in  tatters 
all  about  him,  while  his  -dark,  unshaven  beard  con 
trasted  with  his  blanched  face  as  strongly  as  the 
black  muzzle  of  a  bull-dog. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  Master  Franklin,  for  mak 
ing  so  free,"  the  sot  added,  in  a  wheedling  tone  ; 
"  but,  you  see,  I  had  a  little  drop  too  much  last 
night,"  the  man  went  on,  "  and  I  sha'n't  be  quite 
right  till  I  get  just  a  thimbleful  or  so  of  the  neat 
article  inside  of  me." 

"  I'd  as  lief  pay  for  a  quartern  of  poison  for 
you,  Adam,"  said  Uncle  Benjamin,  mournfully. 

"  You  would,  would  you '?"  roared  the  other, 
springing  up  like  a  wild  beast  from  his  lair,  and 
clutching  the  broken  back  of  the  chair  on  which 
he  had  been  sitting;  and  he  was  preparing  to 
strike  his  visitor  down  with  it,  but  he  staggered 
back  lumpishly  against  the  wall. 

The  boy  flew  to  his  uncle's  side,  and  whispered, 
"  Oh,  come  away,  pray  do,  uncle  !  I  have  seen 
enough  here !" 

The  uncle,  however,  swept  past  the  youth,  and 
going  toward  the  dram-drinker,  said  kindly, 
"  Adam !  Adam !  think  of  the  man  you  once 
were." 

The  drunkard's  head  dropped  upon  his  bosom, 
and  the  next  minute  he  fell  to  whining  and  weep 
ing  like  a  child.  Presently  he  hiccoughed  out 
through  his  sobs,  "  I  do  think  of  it — yuck ! — and 
then  1  want  drink  to  drown  the  cursed  thoughts. 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  181 

Come,  now,  old  friend,"  and  he  vainly  tried  to  lay 
his  hand  on  Uncle  Benjamin's  shoulder,  "  send 
the  youngster  there  for  just  a  noggin— only  one, 
now— from  '  The  Pear-tree,'  and  then  I  shall  be 
all  right  again." 

The  friend  shook  his  head  as  he  replied,  "  You 
won't,  Adam;  you'll  be  all  wrong  again  —  as 
wrong  as  ever,  man.  Isn't  it  this  drink  that  has 
beggared  you,  and  despoiled  you  of  your  fortune, 
and  of  every  friend  too— but  myself?  and  yet  you 
are  so  mad  for  it  still  that  you  crave  for  more." 

"I  do — I  do  thirst  for  it;  my  tongue's  like  a 
bit  of  red-hot  iron  in  my  mouth  now  with  the 
parching  heat  that's  on  me.  I  tell  you  it's  the 
only  thing  that  can  put  an  end  to  care,  and  (sing 
ing)  drown  it  in  the  bo-wo-wole. 

'"  Chorus— We'll  drown  it — yuck  !— in  the  bo- 
wo-wole.  Ha !  you  should  have  seen  Adam  lasht 
night.  Blessh  you,  I  was  as  jolly  as  a  shand-boy 
-the  d'light  of  the  whole  tap-room.  I  tipped 
'em  some  'of  my  best  songs — vain  songs  as  you 
call  'em— and  you  know  I  always  could  sing  a 

food  song  if  I  liked,  Master  Franklin.  Come, 
'11  give  you  a  stave  now  if  you'll  only  send  — 
yuck !— for  that  little  drop  of  jacky.  The  young 
ster  here,  I  dare  say,  would  like  to  hear  me  — 
wouldn't  you,  my  dear  ?"  (but  as  there  was  no 
answer,  he  added),  "What!  you  won't  send  for 
the  gin  ?  Well,  then,  leave  it  alone,  you  stingy 
old  psalm-singing  humbug ;  I  wouldn't  be  behold 
en  to  you  for  it  now  if  you  were  to  press  it  on 
me.  But  never  mind !  never  mind  !  never  mind  ! 
May— may— what  the  deuce  is  that  shentiment  ?" 
(and  he  rubbed  his  hair  round  and.  round  till  it 
was  like  a  mop)  :  "  tut !  tut !  and  it's  such  a  fa 
vorite  shentiment  of  mine,  too,  after  a  song. 
Well,  all  I  know  is,  it's  something  about,  may 
something  or  other — yuck! — never  shorten  friend- 


182  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

ship.  But  never  mind  !  never  mind  !  Lawyer 
Muspratt  is  going  to  sell  that  little  reversion  I'm 
entitled  to  on  my  maiden  aunt's  death ;  it's  the 
only  thing  I've  got  left  now  —  but  never  mind! 
never  mind !  —  and  then  won't  Adam  Tonks  and 
the  boys  at  '  The  Pear-tree1  have  a  night  of  it ! 
Yes, '  dum  vivimus  vivamus*  is  my  motto — yuck ! 
—if  I  die  for  it." 

The  man  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  and 
then  he  said,  as  if  waking  up  from  a  dream, 

"  I  wonder  who  ever  it  was  saw  me  down  the 
cellar  steps  last  night.  But  never  mind  !  never 
mind !  who's  afraid  ? — not  Adam  Tonks,  not  he. 
Come,  friend  Franklin — for  you  have  been  a  right 
good  friend  to  me  often,  that  you  have,  old  cock 
— if  you  won't  send  for  that  drop  of  jacky  out  of 
your  own  pocket,  will  you  lend  me  half  a  dollar 
to  get  it  myself — yuck?  I'll  give  it  you  back 
again  when  the  reversion's  shold.  Oh,  honor 
bright ! — yuck ! — honor  bright,  friend !" 

"  If  it  was  for  food,  Adam,  you  should  have  it 
and  welcome,"  was  the  plain  answer. 

"Food  be  cursed!"  shouted  the  madman,  again 
roused  to  a  fury ;  "  there's  that  bit  of  stinking 
salt  fish  I've  had  for  the  last  week  as  a  relish,  just 
to  pick  a  bit ;  there,  you  can  carry  it  home  with 
you — you  can,  you  Methodistical  old  hunks ;  take 
it  with  you ;"  and,  with  a  violent  effort,  the  man 
flung  the  piece  of  dried  haddock  toward  Uncle 
Benjamin ;  but  so  wide  of  the  mark,  and  with 
such  a  sweep  of  the  arm,  that  it  struck  the  wall 
against  which  the  drunkard  himself  kept  swaying. 

Whereupon  the  godfather,  in  obedience  to  the 
boy's  repeated  entreaty,  took  his  departure. 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  "No.  3. 
The  couple  were  soon  in  one  of  the  most  fash 
ionable  streets  of  the  town ;  and  in  another  min- 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  183 

ute  little  Ben  stood  in  the  middle  of  a  grand  sa 
loon,  wheeling  round  and  round  as  he  gazed  with 
uplifted  eyes,  first  at  the  huge  mirrors  reaching 
from  the  ceiling  to  the  floor,  then  at  the  pictures 
that  covered  the  other  parts  of  the  walls,  and 
then  taken  with  the  marble  busts  and  figures  that 
were  ranged  in  different  corners  of  the  room. 
"  The  chairs  are  all  gold  and  satin,  I  declare ;  and 
the  tables  and  cabinets  of  different-colored  woods, 
worked  into  the  most  beautiful  patterns;  and 
the  chandeliers,  too,  just  like  clusters  of  jewels," 
thought  the  astonished  lad  to  himself. 

"  Who  are  we  going  to  see  here,  uncle  ?"  he 
said,  in  a  whisper  to  the  old  man,  as  he  twitched 
his  uncle  timidly  by  the  skirt. 

Presently  the  door  of  an  anteroom  was  flung 
open,  and  a  voice  drawled  out,  "  Kem  in,  Frank 
lin,  kern  in ;  I  don't  mind  you.  I've  only  got  my 
knight  of  the  goose  and  kebbage  here,  and  you 
would  hardly  believe  the  trouble  I  have  with 
these  varlets :  half  my  time  is  taken  up  with  them, 
I  give  you  my  wad,  Franklin,  and  that  merely  to 
prevent  them  turning  me  out  aw — aw — perfect 
skeyarecrow.  A  man  of  your  fine  kimmon  sense 
knows  as  well  as  any  body,  Franklin,  that  appear 
ance  is  every  thing  to  a  man  who — aw — aw,  the 
wald  is  keyind  enough  to  regeyard  as  aw — aw — 
an  arbiter  elegeyantiarum,  I  believe  I  may  say, 
Franklin,  eh  ?  for,  thank  the  powers,  the  coarsest- 
minded  inimy  I  have  in  the  wald  couldn't  say  that 
Tarn  Skeffington  isn't,  and  always  has  been,  the 
best-dressed  man  in  all  Boston.  I  know  well 
enough,  Franklin,  that  with  persons  of  your  per 
suasion  (by-the-by,  can  I  offer  you  a  kip  of  choc 
olate,  or  a  gless  of  Tokay?  oh,  don't  say  No), 
with  persons  of  your  persuasion  dress  is  utterly 
ignored — ut-ttarly.  But,  deah  me !  with  a  man 
in  my  station — looked  up  to,  as  I  said  befar,  as 


134  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

being  something  like  aw — aw — an  arbiter  ele- 
geyantiarum  in  matters  of  the  tilette — only  think, 
now,  the  kimmotion  there'd  be  among  the  supe- 
riah  clesses  of  this  city  if  Tarn  Skeffington  was  to 
make  his  appearance  in  the  streets — you'll  pardon 
me,  Friend  Franklin,  I  know  you  will — in  a  coat 
like  your  own,  for  exemple !"  and  the  arbiter  ele- 
gantiarum  was  so  tickled  with  the  mere  straw  of 
the  joke  that  he  dabbed  the  patches  on  his  face 
with  a  handkerchief  that  was  like  a  handful  of 
foam,  as  he  tittered  behind  it  as  softly  as  summer 
waves  ripple  over  the  sands. 

Presently  he  gasped  out,  between  the  intervals 
of  his  simpering,  "  By-the-by,  now,  Franklin,  do 
permit  me,  there's  a  good  fellah,  just  to  behold 
myself  for  one  minute  in  that  duffle  dressing-gown 
you've  kem  out  in  to-day,  and  to  see  how  you'd 
look  in  this  new  plum-colored  piece  of  magnifi 
cence  of  mine.  I'm  sure  you'll  obleege  me,  Frank 
lin,  for  I  give  you  my  wad  the  double  sight  would 
throw  me  into  an  ecstasy  of  reptchah." 

The  motive  of  Uncle  Benjamin  for  bringing  his 
godson  to  the  house  was  too  strong  to  make  him 
object  to  an  exchange  of  costume  that,  under  any 
other  circumstances,  he  would  assuredly  have  re 
fused  ;  so,  to  the  intense  delight  of  the  fine  gentle 
man,  and  even  the  attendant  tailor,  the  old  Puri 
tan  proceeded  to  disrobe  himself  of  his  own  coat 
of  humble  gray,  and  to  incase  his  body  in  the 
gaudy  velvet  apparel  of  the  beau. 

And  when  the  temporary  exchange  of  gar 
ments  had  been  duly  effected,  and  the  elegant  Mr. 
Tarn  Skeffington  beheld  himself  in  the  cheval  glass 
attired  in  the  quaint  garb  of  the  Puritan,  and  old 
Benjamin  Franklin  tricked  out  in  the  florid  cos 
tume  of  the  exquisite,  the  sight  was  more  than 
the  delicate  nerves  of  the  dandy  could  bear ;  for 
he  had  to  retire  to  the  sofa,  and  bury  his  head  for 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  185 

a  while  in  the  squab,  or  he  assuredly  would  have 
laughed  outright. 

The  tailor,  however,  who  believed  he  had  nev 
er  seen  any  thing  half  so  comic  in  the  whole  of 
his  life,  chuckled  as  loud  and  heartily  as  a  child 
at  a  pantomime ;  nor  could  he  stop  himself  till 
his  more  refined  customer  had  demanded  "how  he 
dairh'd  to  laif  in  his  presence ;"  and  even  then, 
poor  man !  each  time  he  happened  to  turn  round 
and  get  another  peep  at  the  Puritan  in  the  plum- 
colored  suit,  the  laughter  would  burst  out  at  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  with  the  same  noise  as  the 
froth  gushing  from  beneath  the  cork  of  an  over 
excited  bottle  of  ginger-beer. 

Neither  could  little  Benjamin  himself  refrain 
from  joining  in  the  mirth  at  first,  though  in  a  lit 
tle  while  the  smiles  of  the  lad  subsided  into  frowns, 
as  the  sense  that  his  uncle  was  "  being  made  fun 
of"  came  across  his  mind. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  arbiter  elegantiarum  was 
sufficiently  himself  to  rise  from  the  sofa.  "  I  give 
my  wad,  Franklin,"  he  said,  as  he  twisted  the  old 
gentleman  round  by  the  shoulders,  "  you'd  punish 
a  few  of  the  geyirls  at  a  dannse  at  the  State  House 
in  a  coat  like  that — you  would,  even  at  your  time 
of  life,  I  give  you  my  wad  (Do  you  snuff,  Frank 
lin  ? — it's  the  finest  Irish  bleggeyard,  I  assure 
you) ;  and  I  mean  to  play  the  same  havoc  with 
the  poor  things,  I  can  tell  you,"  he  went  on,  as 
the  tailor  helped  them  one  after  the  other  to  ex 
change  coats  once  more ;  "  for  if  they  can  with 
stand  Tarn  Skeffington  in  that  plum-colored  piece 
of  magnificence,  why  then  they've  hearts  as  im 
penetrable  as  sand -bags;  and  heaven  knows  I 
don't  find  that  the  case  with  the  deah  creachyos 
generally ;  for  I'm  sure  they're  good  and  keyind 
to  me,  Master  Franklin,  they  are  indeed,  I  give 
you  my  wad ;  though  they  know,  I  believe,  my 


180  YOUNG  BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

freatest  pleasure  is  to  afford  them  one  moment's 
appiness,  and  there  isn't  a  lovely  woman  in  the 
wald  that  Tarn  Skeffington  is  not  ready  to  lay 
down  his  life  for — his  life,  Franklin.  I'm  sure 
only  last  year  it  cost  me  a  fortune  in  trinkets,  and 
essences,  and  bouquets  for  the  sweet  creachyos. 
But  then,  you  know,  Franklin,  a  man  in  my  posi 
tion — a  man  who  is  allowed  to  be — by  both  sexes, 
I  believe  I  may  say — a  person  of  some  little  taste, 
and,  thank  the  powers,  of  some  little  refinement 
too — a  man  like  myself,  I  say,  keyant  spend  his 
money  on  terrumpery ;  that,  you  see,  is  the  pen 
alty  one  has  to  pay  for  being  an  aw — aw — arbiter 
elegeyantiarum,  as  I  said  befar.  And  yet,  after 
all,  surely  such  a  title  is  the  proudest  that  can  be 
bestowed  upon  a  gentleman;  surely  it's  some 
thing  to  have  lived  for,  Franklin,  eh  ?  to  have 
gained  that  much — to  be  the  admired  of  all  ad 
mirers,  as  Hamlet  has  it;  for  who  would  not 
rather  be  the  potentate  of  fashion  smdhaut  ton — 
the  supreme  authority  in  all  matters  of  good  taste 
and  elegance — the  dictatah  of  superiah  mannahs 
and  etiquette — than  even  be  like  this  same  famous 
Petah  the  Great  that  every  body  is  talking  about 
now — the  monarch  of  a  million  savages  ?  But 
perhaps  your  little  boy  here,"  he  added,  with  the 
faintest  indication  of  a  bow  to  young  Benjamin, 
"  would  like  to  see  the  pictyahs,  and  statues,  and 
objects  of  vertu,  and  knick-knacks  in  the  next 
room." 

And  then,  as  the  arbiter  elegantiarum  opened 
the  door  for  them,  he  continued,  "  You'll  find,  I 
believe,  some  rather  ch'ice  works  of  art  among 
them — at  least  the  wald  tells  me  so — and  heaven 
knows  I've  nearly  ruined  myself  in  forming  the 
kellection." 

Then,  still  holding  the  door  for  the  couple  to 
pass  through,  he  bowed  profoundly  as  they  made 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  1ST 

their  exit,  the  dandy  saying  the  while,  "  Your 
obeejent  humble  servant,  Master  Franklin,  your 
humble  servant  to  kemmand." 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  4. 

"  Who's  there  ?  who's  there,  I  say  ?"  shouted 
an  old  man. 

"Who-o-o's  there  ?  who-o-o's  there,  I  say  ?"  was 
screamed  out,  in  the  shrill  treble  of  senility  and 
fright,  from  behind  the  garret  door  at  which  Un 
cle  Benjamin  and  his  little  companion  were  pres 
ently  knocking. 

"  Come,  Jerry !  Jerry !  we're  no  robbers,  man 
alive ;  it's  Benjamin  Franklin,  of  the  Hanover 
Street  Conventicle,  come  to  see  you,"  shouted  the 
uncle  through  the  chink  of  the  door,  as  he  rattled 
impatiently  at  the  latch. 

There  was  a  sound  of  jingling  metal  and  a  hur- 


a  sniggle  of  affected  delight. 

"  The  old  fellow's  scrambling  together  his  mon 
ey  to  hide  it  before  we  go  in,"  whispered  the  god 
father  in  the  ear  of  the  lad. 

In  a  minute  or  two  they  could  hear  the  gaffer 
gasping  away  as  he  endeavored  to  remove  the 
heavy  bar  from  behind  the  door,  and  saying  the 
while,  in  the  same  forced  giggling  tone  as  before, 
"  Dear  heart !  dear  heart !  I  quite  forgot  the  door 
was  barred,  to  be  sure." 

Once  within  the  room,  little  Ben  found  the  mi 
ser's  garret  even  more  squalid  and  poverty-strick 
en  than  the  drunkard's  cellar.  The  broken  win 
dow-panes  were  stuffed  with  bundles  of  dirty 
rags,  and  the  principal  light  that  entered  the  lit 
tle  dog-hole  of  a  home  dribbled  in  through  the 
cold  blue  gaps  in  the  roof.  The  plaster  had  fallen 


183  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FKANKLIN. 

in  large  patches  from  the  walls,  and  left  huge  ul 
cerous-looking  blotches  there,  while  the  flooring 
in  places  was  green  and  brown  as  rusty  copper 
from  the  soddening  of  long-continued  leakage 
through  the  tiles. 

In  one  corner  of  the  apartment  there  was  a  hil 
lock  of  mouldy  crusts,  spotted  with  white  hairy 
tufts  of  mildew ;  in  another,  a  litter  of  half-putrid 
bones,  mingled  with  pieces  of  old  ochre-stained 
iron  and  nails ;  and  along  one  side  of  the  room 
was  ranged  the  mere  skeleton  of  a  bedstead,  cov 
ered  with  a  sack  stuffed  with  straw  by  way  of 
mattress,  and  one  solitary  blanket  that  was  as 
thin,  and  almost  as  black  as  coffin-cloth.  The  only 
chair  was  like  an  old  bass  fish-basket  in  its  rushy 
raggedness,  and  a  huge  sea-chest  stood  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  room  to  do  duty  for  a  table,  while  the 
whole  place  reeked  with  the  same  damp,  musty, 
fungusy  odor  as  a  ruin. 

The  old  miser  himself  was  as  spare  and  trem 
ulous  as  a  mendicant  Lascar,  and  he  had  the  same 
wretched,  craven,  crouching,  grinning,  nipped-up 
air  with  him  too.  His  black  and  restless  little 
eyes,  with  their  shaggy,  overhanging  brows,  gave 
him  the  sharp,  irritable  expression  of  a  terrier, 
and  there  was  a  continual  nervousness  in  his  man 
ner,  like  one  haunted  by  a  spectre.  He  wore  a 
long  duffle  coat  that  had  once  been  gray,  but  was 
now  almost  as  motley  as  a  patchwork  counter 
pane,  from  the  many-colored  pieces  with  which 
it  had  been  mended ;  and  on  either  cuff  of  this 
there  was  stuck  row  after  row  of  pins,  that  he 
picked  up  in  his  rounds,  as  close  as  the  wires  to 
a  sieve. 

As  the  uncle  and  nephew  entered  the  apart 
ment,  the  miser  retreated  hurriedly  from  the  door 
way;  and  then,  scrambling  toward  the  bedstead, 
seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  it,  with  his  arms. 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  189 

stretched  out,  so  as  to  prevent  either  of  his  visit 
ors  coming  there. 

"  Well,  you  see,  Master  Jerry,  I've  brought  a 
fagot  of  firewood  with  me  this  time,"  said  the 
elder  Benjamin,  as  he  telegraphed  to  his  nephew 
to  deposit  the  bundle  of  sticks  he  had  been  carry 
ing  down  by  the  fireplace.  "  I'm  not  going  to  sit 
shivering  again  in  your  draughty  room,  with  the 
roof  and  the  windows  all  leaking  rheumatisms, 
catarrhs,  and  agues,  as  they  do,  without  a  handful 
of  fire  in  the  grate,  I  can  tell  you."  And,  so  say 
ing,  he  proceeded  at  once  to  turn  up  the  collar 
of  his  coat,  and  to  pantomime  to  his  nephew  to 
undo  the  fagot,  and  get  a  fire  lighted  as  quickly 
as  possible. 

The  little  fellow,  however,  was  too  much  taken 
up  with  the  strangeness  of  the  place,  and  the 
quaint  figure  and  odd  ways  of  the  queer  old  man 
seated  on  the  bedstead  before  him,  to  make  much 
haste  about  the  matter ;  so,  as  he  knelt  down  to 
do  his  uncle's  bidding,  he  kept  fumbling  at  the 
withy  band  round  the  fagot,  with  his  eyes  now 
riveted  upon  the  miser,  and  now  fastened  on  the 
mounds  of  refuse  stored  in  the  different  corners 
of  the  wretched-looking  chamber. 

"  Plow  you  can  manage  to  live  in  such  a  place 
as  this,  Jerry,  is  more  than  I  can  make  out,"  con 
tinued  Uncle  Benjamin. 

"  Well,  you  know,  Master  Franklin,"  respond 
ed  the  old  hunks,  in  a  whining  tone,  and  grinning 
sycophantically  as  he  spoke,  "rents  are  uncom 
mon  dear,  and  I  can't  afford  to  pay  any  more 
than  I  do  here.  A  quarter  of  a  dollar  a  week  for 
a  mere  place  to  put  one's  old  head  in  is  a  great 
deal  of  money,  ain't  it,  now  ?" 

"  Can't  afford,  man  alive !  why,  you  could  afford 
to  rent  a  mansion  if  you  pleased,"  was  the  scorn 
ful  reply. 


190  YOUNG-  BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

"  How  you  do  talk,  Friend  Franklin,  to  be  sure ! 
You  always  seem  to  think  I'm  made  of  money, 
that  you  do,"  returned  the  miser,  with  a  faint 
chuckle,  as  he  pretended  to  treat  the  notion  of 
his  wealth  as  a  mere  joke.  "  Hah !  if  I'd  only 
listened  to  such  as  you,  I  should  have  been  in 
the  poor-house  long  before  this — he !  he !  he !"  he 
added,  with  another  titter. 

"And  if  you  had  been,  Jerry,  you  would  have 
been  both  better  housed  and  fed  there  than  you 
are  here,"  the  elder  Benjamin  made  answer. 

"  Ye-e-es !  I  dare  say  I  should  ;  a  great  deal, 
and  for  nothing  too,"  grinned  the  old  man,  as  he 
gloated  for  a  moment  over  the  idea  of  the  gratu 
itous  board  and  lodging ;  the  next  minute,  how 
ever,  he  added,  with  a  sorrowful  shake  of  the 
head,  "  But  they  wouldn't  admit  me  into  the 
poor-house,  you  see,  because  they  know  I've  al 
ways  had  the  fear  of  dying  of  hunger  in  my  old 
age  before  my  eyes,  and  managed  to  save  up  just 
a  dollar  or  two  against  it.  No,  no,  it  is  only  the 
prodigals  and  the  unthrifts  they'll  consent  to 
keep  there  for  nothing ;  and  a  pretty  lesson  that 
is  to  preach  to  the  world,  ain't  it,  now,  Master 
Franklin  ?" 

"  Well,  but,  Jerry,  Jerry,"  expostulated  Uncle 
Benjamin,  anxious  to  bring  the  miser  to  some 
thing  like  common  sense,  "  what  on  earth  is  the 
use  of  your  having  saved  up  this  dollar  or  two,  as 
you  call  it,  against  that  eternal  bugbear  of  yours 
— '  dying  of  hunger  in  your  old  age,'  if  you  con 
tinue  to  starve  yourself,  as  you  are  doing  now, 
day  after  day  ?"  ' 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha !"  laughed  Master  Jerry,  in  re 
turn,  and  with  as  little  unction  in  the  laughter  as 
though  he  had  been  a  hyena  rather  than  a  man ; 
"and  you'd  have  me  spend  all  my  hard-earned 
savings  in  eating  and  drinking,  I  suppose.  Ha ! 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  191 

ha!  and  a  deal  the  better  I  should  be  for  that, 
when  my  money  was  all  gone,  and  I  left  without 
a  penny  in  my  old  age !  No,  no,  Friend  Frank 
lin  ;  so  long  as  I've  got  a  dollar  or  two  by  me,  I 
know  no  harm  can  come  to  me ;"  and  the  gaffer 
chafed  his  weazened  hands  together  as  he  chuck 
led  over  his  fancied  security. 

"Madman!"  muttered  the  elder  Benjamin, 
aside;  "and  yet  you  suffer  continually  in  the 
present  the  very  harm  you  dread  in  the  future." 

"Do  you  know,  Friend  Franklin,"  the  miser 
went  on,  "  what  is  the  only  delight  I  have  left  in 
the  world  now  ?  (I  don't  mind  telling  you  as 
much,  for  you  won't  let  any  one  know  I've  got  a 
few  dollars  by  me  here,  will  you  ?)  why,  it's  to 
sit  and  look  at  the  few  pieces  I've  managed  to 
save  —  though  they  are  but  a  very  few,  I  give 
you  my  word — for  it's  only  when  I've  got  them 
spread  out  before  my  eyes,  and  keep  biting  'em 
one  after  another  between  my  old  teeth,  to  con 
vince  myself  that  there  ain't  a  bad  coin  among 
'em,  that  I  feel  in  any  way  sure  that  I  sha'n't  die  a 
beggar  after  all.  Ye-e-es,  Friend  Franklin,  that's 
the  only  happiness  I  have  in  life  now ;  but  you 
won't  tell  any  body  that  I  let  you  know  I'd  got  a 
few  dollars  by  me  here,  will  you  now  ?"  the  miser 
added,  abruptly,  in  a  carneying  tone,  as  a  misgiv 
ing  stole  over  him  concerning  the  imprudence  of 
the  confession  he  had  made.  "  Oh  ye-e-es,  Friend 
Franklin,  I'm  sure  I  can  trust  to  you,  and" — said 
he,  with  a  cunning  whisper,  as  he  pointed  toward 
little  Ben — "  and  the  boy  yonder  too,  eh — eh  ?" 

The  latter  part  of  the  speech  drew  Uncle  Ben 
jamin's  attention  once  more  to  his  nephew,  and 
the  progress  he  was  making  with  the  fire ;  so  he 
called  out,  as  a  cold  shudder  crept  over  his  frame, 
"  Come,  I  say,  Master  Ben,  look  alive  and  get  the 
legs  lighted"  (for  the  boy  had  been  attending 


192  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FBANKLIN. 

more  to  the  conversation  than  the  grate) ;  "  I  de 
clare  there's  a  draught  here  almost  as  strong  as 
the  blast  to  a  furnace ;"  and,  so  saying,  he  set  to 
work  stamping  his  feet  and  chafing  his  palms,  to 
stir  the  blood  in  them.  Then,  drawing  his  hand 
kerchief  from  his  pocket,  he  proceeded  to  tie  it 
over  his  ears. 

The  quick  eye  of  the  miser  noticed  something 
fall  upon  the  floor  as  his  visitor  pulled  his  ker 
chief  from  the  hind  part  of  his  coat ;  so,  springing 
from  the  bedstead,  he  began  groping  on  the 
ground  for  the  article  the  other  had  dropped. 

"  Oh  !  it's  only  a  piece  of  string,  after  all !"  the 
old  fellow  cried,  as  he  rose  up  on  his  feet  again 
with  a  violent  effort.  "  But  perhaps  it's  of  no  use 
to  you,  Friend  Franklin,"  he  added,  with  a  true 
beggar's  air ;  "  and  if  so,  I'll  just  take  care  of  it 
myself,  for  I  can't  bear  to  see  any  thing  wasted ; 
besides,  it  will  come  in  handy  for  something  some 
day."  Whereupon,  without  waiting  for  the  other 
to  tell  him  he  was  welcome  to  the  twine,  the  old 
niggard  proceeded  to  wind  it  into  a  figure  of  8 
on  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  ultimately  to  thrust 
it  into  the  wallet-like  pocket  of  his  coat. 

As  the  miser  sat  at  the  edge  of  the  bed,  thus 
engaged  for  a  while,  he  said,  after  a  slight  pause, 
"  You  haven't  run  across  that  minx,  my  Mary,  of 
late,  have  you,  Friend  Franklin? — the  heartless 
hussy,  curse  her!"  And  as  he  spat  out  the  last 
words  from  between  his  teeth,  there  was  a  savage 
fury  in  the  tone  which  it  made  young  Benjamin 
almost  shudder  to  hear. 

"  Come,  I  say !  I  say !  remember,  the  girl  is 
your  own  flesh  and  blood,  man,"  cried  the  elder 
Benjamin,  reprovingly. 

"I  do ;  and  therefore  I  say  again,  Curse  her ! 
curse  the  jade  forever  and  ever !"  and  the  bitter- 
hearted  old  gray  beard  ground  out  his  anathemas 


PLEASURE-HUNTING. 


with  a  double  vindictiveness.  "Didn't  she  go 
away  with  that  fellow  she's  married  to,  and  leave 
her  old  father  here  alone,  and  almost  helpless, 
without  a  soul  in  the  world  to  attend  upon  him, 
or  do  a  thing  for  him  in  his  eleventh  hour  ? — no, 
not  unless  they're  well  paid  for  it,  they  won't, 
the  mercenary  wretches !  I  told  her  to  choose 
between  me  and  the  beggar  she  took  up  with,  and 
she  preferred  the  beggar  to  her  old  father ;  so  she 
may  starve  and  rot  with  the  beggar  for  what  I 
care,  for  not  so  much  as  one  stiver  of  mine  does 
she  or  hers  ever  touch.  No,"  he  added,  with  all 
the  intensity  of  a  miser's  lust  and  uncharitable- 
ness,  "not  if  I  have  my  money  soldered  down  in 
my  coffin,  and  take  it  into  my  grave  with  me," 
said  he,  as  he  ground  his  fangs  and  clenched  his 
bony  fists. 

This  was  more  than  Uncle  Benjamin  could 
bear ;  so,  starting  from  his  seat,  he  turned  sharply 
round  upon  the  old  hunks  as  he  cried,  in  the  fury 
of  his  indignation,  "  Your  grave,  man !  Do  you 
think  you  can  take  your  beastly  gold  and  silver 
to  hell  with  you  ?"  adding,  half  aside,  "  for  they 
won't  have  it  in  heaven,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Well,  well,  I  dare  say  not,"  answered  the 
miser,  as  he  shook  his  head  backward  and  for 
ward,  and  half  cried  over  the  ugliness  of  the  re 
proof;  "  though  what's  to  become  of  it  all,  and 
who's  to  get  it  and  squander  it,  after  the  trouble 
I've  had  to  save  it,  costs  me  many  an  anxious 
thought ;  so  sometimes  I  think  that  it  will  be  bet 
ter  in  the  end,  perhaps,  to  have  it  buried  along 
with  me,  and  so  have  done  with  it  altogether. 
Still,  come  what  may,  Mary  shall  never  finger  so 
much  as  a  copper-piece  of  mine,  I'll  take  care." 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation  for  a 
minute  or  two,  and  then  Jerry  said,  in  a  widely 
different  tone,  "  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  Friend 
N 


194  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

Franklin,  but  the  other  day  the  minx  sent  me  a 
jug  of  soup.  She  thinks  to  get  round  me  in  that 
way,  the  artful  bit  of  goods ;  but  she'll  find  her 
self  sorely  mistaken,  he !  he !  he !  I  knew  she 
sent  it,"  he  went  on,  "because  the  cloth  it  was 
tied  up  in  was  marked  with  her  married  name. 
When  I  found  out  who  it  had  come  from,  do  you 
know  I  was  going  to  chuck  it  out  of  window  ? 
but  then,  you  see,  I  can't  bear  any  thing  to  be 
wasted,  so  I  put  it  in  my  cupboard  there,  and 
there  it'll  bide,  Friend  Franklin,  till  I'm  dead  and 
gone,  I  can  tell  you." 

By  this  time  young  Benjamin  had  laid  the  logs 
in  the  grate ;  and  having  taken  from  his  pocket 
the  tinder-box  and  matches  with  which  his  god 
father  had  provided  him  (for  Uncle  Benjamin 
knew  well  enough  it  would  be  idle  to  look  for 
such  things  in  the  miser's  room),  he  was  begin 
ning  to  chip  away  with  the  flint  and  steel  as  he 
knelt  in  front  of  the  grate. 

No  sooner,  however,  did  the  sound  of  the  re 
peated  clicking  smite  the  miser's  ear,  than  he 
-  darted  from  the  bedstead,  as  if  some  sudden  ter 
ror  had  seized  upon  his  soul;  and,  rushing  to 
ward  the  lad,  laid  hold  of  him  by  the  collar,  and 
nearly  throttled  the  boy,  just  as  he  was  in  the  act 
of  blowing,  with  his  cheeks  puffed  out  as  round 
as  a  football,  at  a  stray  spark  that  had  fallen  on 
the  tinder. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  what  are  you 
going  to  do,  boy  ?"  the  old  miser  shrieked,  while 
he  trembled  from  head  to  foot  as  if  palsy-strick 
en.  "  You  can't  light  a  fire  there ;  you'll  set  the 
chimney  in  a  blaze." 

"  Haugh !  haugh !  haugh !"  roared  Uncle  Ben 
jamin,  derisively.  "  Set  your  chimney  in  a  blaze, 
Jerry !  Why,  it  has  never  had  a  fire  in  it  since 
I've  known  you.  There,  go  along  with  you,  man ; 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  195 

there's  no  fear  of  your  having  to  pay  for  the  en 
gines  :  the  flue's  as  free  of  soot  as  a  master  sweep 
on  a  Sunday,  I'll  swear.  Besides,  I'm  frozen, 
Jerry  —  chilled  to  the  very  marrow,  and  must 
have  just  a  handful  of  hot  embers  in  the  grate  to 
warm  me — at  least,  that  is,  if  I'm  to  sit  here  any 
longer,  and  tell  you  any  thing  about  your  Mary ; 
for  while  you  were  raving  and  cursing  just  now, 
I  hadn't  an  opportunity  of  edging  in  a  word  about 
the  girl,  remember." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say !  I  dare  say !"  whined  out 
the  old  miser,  divided  between  the  fear  of  fire 
and  his  curiosity  as  to  the  "  circumstances"  of  his 
runawray  daughter.  "But  you'll  promise  not  to 
make  much  of  a  flame,  won't  you,  now,  good  lad  ? 
Besides,"  he  added,  "  I  can't  bear  to  see  wood 
burnt  extravagantly ;  and  you  don't  know  how 
close  and  hot  this  room  does  become  with  even 
the  least  bit  of  fire." 

"  No,  nor  do  you  know  much  about  that  either, 
Jerry,  I'm  thinking,"  giggled  Uncle  Benjamin. 
"  There,  go  back  to  your  seat,  man,  and  listen 
quietly  to  what  I've  got  to  say  about  your  child. 
Come,  you  shall  have  all  the  wood  that's  left ; 
and,  bless  me !  we  sha'n't  burn  a  penn'orth  of  it 
altogether." 

The  niggard  suffered  himself  to  be  led  back  to 
the  bedstead  by  his  visitor,  while  young  Ben,  who 
had  now  lighted  the  smaller  twigs,  remained  kneel 
ing  in  front  of  the  grate,  blowing  away  at  the 
burning  branches  in  order  to  kindle  the  mass. 

"  Well,  you  know,  Jerry,"  proceeded  the  uncle, 
"I  saw  your  Mary  at  the  Conventicle  last  Sab 
bath  morning — " 

"Did  you?  did  you?"  cried  the  old  fellow; 
"  and  what  did  she  say  ?  Is  she  sorry  for  her 
disobedience  ?  Does  the  jade  repent,  and  want 
to  come  back  again  to  me — eh — eh  ?" 


196  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

There  was  no  time  for  Uncle  Benjamin  to  an 
swer  the  questions,  for  a  loud  cry  from  the  boy  at 
the  fire  made  the  pair  of  them  start  to  their  feet 
in  an  instant. 

The  dry  twigs,  with  which  the  grate  had  been 
nearly  filled,  had,  with  young  Ben's  continued 
puffing,  become  ignited  all  at  once,  and  as  the 
long  tongue  of  flame  licked  into  the  narrow 
mouth  of  the  flue,  the  little  fellow  looked  up  the 
chimney,  and  fancied  he  could  see  something 
a-light  there  ;  so  the  next  minute  he  cried  aloud, 
"  The  chimney's  a-fire,  I'm  sure.  I  can  see  some 
thing  burning  in  it." 

"  Something  burning  in  the  chimney ! — what ! 
— what !"  roared  the  distracted  miser,  as  he  tore 
his  gray  locks,  and  gesticulated  as  wildly  as  a" 
maniac. 

The  boy,  who  was  still  on  his  knees,  with  his 
head  twisted  on  one  side,  as  he  watched  the 
smouldering  mass  up  the  flue,  seized  one  of  the 
largest  logs  that  he  had  placed  against  the  wall, 
and  thrust  it  far  up  the  chimney,  so  as  to  rake 
down  the  ignited  mass. 

"  What  would  you  do,  boy  ?  what  would  you 
do  ?  It's  my  bag — my  bag  of  money  that's  burn 
ing  there,  I  tell  you !"  and  no  sooner  had  the  miser 
roared  out  the  words,  than  a  golden  shower  of 
guineas  poured  down  the  mouth  of  the  chimney, 
and  fell  in  a  heap  into  the  very  midst  of  the  blaz 
ing  logs  and  embers. 

The  miser  was  fairly  crazed  as  he  saw  his  treas 
ure  descend,  in  a  cataract  as  it  were,  into  the  very 
heart  of  the  fire ;  and,  in  the  phrensy  of  the  mo 
ment,  he  thrust  his  bony  hands  into  the  midst  of 
the  burning  wood,  and  dragged  the  heated  coins, 
handful  by  handful,  from  out  the  flames  ;  till, 
writhing  with  the  agony  of  his  burnt  palms,  he 
was  forced  to  fling  the  pieces  down  on  the  floor ; 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  19T 

and  there  they  rolled  about,  some  falling  between 
the  chinks  of  the  planks,  and  others  strewing  the 
boards  so  thickly  that  the  wretched,  squalid  lit 
tle  garret  seemed  at  last  to  be  paved  with  gold. 

Then  the  old  hunks  fell  upon  his  knees,  and 
scrambled  after  the  coins,  crying  like  a  child  the 
while ;  but  presently,  roused  by  a  sudden  fury,  he 
sprang  wildly  to  his  feet  again,  and  seizing  one 
of  the  flaring  brands  he  had  just  thrown  under 
the  grate,  screamed  as  he  whirled  it  madly  in  the 
air, "  Begone,  robbers !  thieves !  begone  with  you ! 
It  was  Mary  that  sent  you  here  to  do  this ;  she 
told  you  where  my  money  was  hid.  Curses  on 
you  all !  begone,  begone,  I  say !" 

It  was  no  time  to  parley  with  the  frantic  man ; 
so  Uncle  Benjamin  pushed  his  nephew  out  of  the 
miser's  reach,  and  then,  as  he  thrust  the  boy  into 
the  passage,  closed  the  door  before  the  maniac 
had  time  to  harm  either  little  Ben  or  himself. 

And  as  the  couple  descended  the  creaking 
stairs,  they  could  hear  the  old  niggard  in  his 
phrensy,  raving  and  sobbing,  while  he  barred  and 
bolted  his  garret  door ;  and  then,  counting  the 
pieces,  as  he  collected  the  remains  of  his  treasure, 
crying,  "  One,  two — curse  the  girl ! — three,  four, 
five — curse  her  and  hers,  forever  and  ever !" 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  5. 

"  What  is  money  to  me,  my  friend  ?"  exclaim 
ed  the  inmate  of  the  next  garret  they  visited,  aft 
er  Uncle  Benjamin  had  narrated  to  the  young 
man  they  found  alone  with  his  books  there  the 
scene  that  had  just  occurred  at  the  lodgings  of 
old  Jerry  the  miser. 

"  I  care  not  to  hive  any  of  this  human  honey, 
Master  Franklin,  for  it  is  honey  that  the  golden- 
bellied  wasps  of  the  world  distill  only  from  weeds 
and  tares.  The  sweet  yellow  stuff  may  be  tooth- 


193  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

some  to  man  in  his  second  childhood,  but  to  me 
there  is  a  sickliness  about  it  that  clogs  and  dead 
ens  the  finer  tastes  and  natural  cravings  of  man 
kind." 

Young  Ben  gazed  in  all  the  muteness  of  deep 
wonder  at  the  speaker.  Every  thing  around  him 
— the  dingy  and  cheerless  attic — the  cold,  empty 
grate — the  scanty  bedding — the  spare  and  crazy 
furniture  —  the  lean  cupboard,  with  its  solitary 
milk-can  and  crust  of  bread  —  all  told  the  boy, 
even  inexpert  as  he  was  at  deciphering  the  sun 
dry  little  conventional  signs  as  to  a  person's  "  cir 
cumstances"  in  life,  that  the  poor  garreteer  had 
no  more  of  the  world's  comforts  to  console  him 
than  either  the  drunkard  or  the  miser. 

And  yet  the  poverty  seemed  to  invest  the  man 
with  all  the  moral  dignity  of  a  hermit,  whereas  it 
had  appeared  to  steep  the  others  in  all  the  squa 
lor  of  habitual  mendicancy.  How  different,  too, 
was  he  in  look  and  tone  from  either  of  those  they 
had  previously  visited !  There  was  a  gentleness 
and  a  music  in  his  voice,  as  if  his  very  heart 
strings  vibrated  as  he  spake,  and  a  high-naturcd 
expression  in  his  features,  that  lighted  up  his 
blanched  countenance  like  sunshine  upon  snow. 
His  forehead  was  fair,  and  round  as  an  ivory 
dome ;  and  his  full  liquid  eyes  were  intensely 
blue,  and  deep  as  the  sea  far  away  from  land ; 
while,  as  he  talked  of  the  world's  vanities  and 
glories,  there  was  the  same  passionate  play  of 
nostril,  and  the  same  proud  working  of  the  neck 
as  marks  a  blood-horse's  sense  of  his  own  power 
when  pawing  the  ground  at  his  feet. 

"  But  the  long-eared  Midases  of  the  world,  Mas 
ter  Franklin,"  the  poet  continued,  "  they  who  re 
joice  in  the  power  of  transmuting  all  they  touch 
into  gold,  must  be  ever  deaf  to  the  grand  har 
monies  of  life  and  nature,  ay,  and  blind  as  corpses 


PLEASTJKE-HtTNTING. 


too—  having  their  eyes  forever  closed  with  pieces 
'of  money  —  to  the  beauty  which  floods  the  earth 
with  light,  color,  and  glory,  as  though  it  were  the 
very  halo  of  the  Godhead  shining  over  creation. 
Such  as  these  affect  to  speak  with  pity  of  the  poor 
poet  ;  but,  prithee,  friend,  who  so  poor  in  heart 
and  soul  as  Dives  himself  ?  —  as  Dives,  who  can 
not  taste  a  erumb  of  the  ideal  feast  that  is  spread 
even   for   the   mendicant  Lazarus  ?  —  Dives,  m 
whose  leathern  ear  the  sea-shell  sings  not  of  the 
mighty  mysteries  of  the  ocean-deep,  and  to  whom 
the  little  lark  never  warbles  of  the  crimson  grand 
eur  of  the  sky,  the  air,  and  earth,  at  break  of  day  ? 
—  Dives,  in  whose  dull  eyes  the  wild  flowers  show- 
no  grace,  nor  the  tiny  insects  the  least  touch  of 
art  ?  —  Dives,  the  veriest  pauper  amid  the  richest 
of  all  riches  —  he  of  the  stone  heart  and  leaden 
brain  ?     Was  Andrew  Marvel  poor,  think  you, 
when  the  libertine  Charles  sought  to  bribe  him 
into  silence  ?     Not  he  ;  for  he  was  richer  than 
the  king  in  honor  and  dignity  —  rich  enough  to 
be  able  to  spurn  the  royal  bribe,  even  though  he 
was  so  poor  in  pocket  as  to  be  forced  to  borrow 
the  means  for  a  dinner  the  moment  after." 

Little  Ben  had  never  heard  such  utterances  be 
fore  ;  and  as  he  sat  there,  still  staring  intently  at 
the  speaker,  he  was  marveling  which  was  right  — 
his  uncle,  who  taught  him  that  he  must  either 
save  or  be  a  slave,  or  this  young  man,  whose  very 
dignity  and  independence  of  spirit  seemed  to 
spring  from  his  contempt  for  mere  worldly  wealth. 

The  elder  Benjamin  could  almost  guess  what 
was  passing  in  his  nephew's  mind  ;  nevertheless, 
it  was  neither  the  time  nor  the  place  to  clear  up 
the  difficulty,  so  he  remained  as  silent  as  the  lad 
himself,  and  merely  nodded  his  approbation  as  the 
poet  continued. 

"Nor  would  I  have  the  world's  wealth,  friend* 


200  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

at  the  world's  price,"  the  young  man  ran  on. 
"  What  if  the  stomach  icitt  sometimes  crave  for 
food,  at  least  I  have  an  ethereal  banquet  here  in 
my  little  stock  of  books" — pointing  to  the  few 
shelves  slung  against  the  wall — "  a  banquet  that 
the  gods  themselves  might  revel  in ;  ay,  and  a 
banquet,  too,  that  the  pampered  belly  has  seldom 
any  zest  for.  These  are  the  men,  Master  Frank 
lin,"  he  cried,  his  eyes  glowing  with  the  fervor 
of  his  soul  as  he  turned  to  his  favorite  authors, 
"  who  are  the  blessed  comforters  of  the  poor,  if 
the  poor  but  knew  them  as  poor  I  do ;  these  the 
worthies  that  care  not  how  humble  the  dwelling 
they  enter ;  these  the  true  hearts  that  have  a 
good  and  kind  word  to  whisper  in  every  ear.  As 
Francis  Bacon  says,  they  are  the  'interpreters' 
between  God  and  us — the  '  interpreters'  of  that 
subtle  myth  which  makes  the  soul  of  man  a  mere 
grub  here  and  a  butterfly  hereafter ;  the  great 
translators  of  the  mighty  poem  of  creation — each 
rendering,  as  did  the  Septuagint  of  old,  some 
special  canticle  or  glorious  passage  in  the  Book, 
and  each  catching  the  sense  and  spirit  of  the 
great  Original  as  if  by  inspiration.  Can  a  man 
be  poor,  friend,"  he  asked  proudly,  "when  he 
can  find  any  amount  of  treasure  in  these  volumes 
merely  by  digging  a  little  beneath  the  surface  for 
it?  Have  I  no  jewels,  when  in  this  casket  there 
are  gems  brighter  and  more  precious  than  ever 
adorned  a  monarch's  brow?  Have  I  no  posses 
sions,  when  such  an  inheritance  as  this  has  been 
bequeathed  to  me  ? — no  grounds,  when  I  have 
these  interminable  gardens  and  academic  groves 
about  me  to  wander  in  as  I  list — gardens  that  are 
planted  with  exquisite  taste,  and  filled  with  all 
the  flowers  of  the  Elysian  fields  of  immortality — 
flowers  that  bloom  forever  in  the  bosom  after 
they  are  plucked,  and  whose  perfume  blends  vTHh 


PLEASUEE-HUNTING.  201 

the  soul,  till  the  mind  itself  becomes  sweetened 
with  their  grace  ?" 

The  boy  was  entranced  as  he  listened.  He  had 
never  before  heard  words  uttered  with  such  ar 
dor  ;  they  came  ringing  in  his  ear,  and  stirred  his 
soul  like  a  trumpet.  The  only  zeal  he  had  ever 
seen  displayed  as  yet  had  been  among  the  fanatics 
of  the  conventicle  to  which  his  father  belonged ; 
but  here  was  a  man  speaking  with  all  the  fervor 
of  the  most  devout  religion  upon  the  grandeur 
and  glory  of  mere  poetry ;  a  man  loving  poverty 
with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  an  ascetic — not  from 
any  superstitious  delight  in  the  daily  martyrdom 
of  the  flesh,  but  because  his  taste  found  more  re 
fined  joy  in  the  sublimities  of  nature  and  thought 
than  in  the  sickly  sweetmeats  of  the  world ;  a 
man  worshiping  the  divine  element  of  beauty  and 
truth  in  all  things,  and  loathing  the  world's  vani 
ties  and  sensualities  as  the  great  uglinesses  ^ of 
life.  It  was  impossible  not  to  have  faith  in  him. 
His  creed  was  manifestly  not  a  mere  affected  sen 
timent,  but  an  all-absorbing  passion — a  passion 
that  flashed  like  lightning  in  his  eyes,  and  stirred 
his  limbs  like  branches  tossed  by  a  hurricane. 

"  How  different,"  presently  he  continued,  talk 
ing  half  to  himself  till  he  became  fired  again  with 
his  subject,  "does  the  possession  of  such  wealth  as 
this  make  us  from  what  the  world's  wealth  does  ! 
Your  money-riches  are  sure,  sooner  or  later,  to 
transform  the  heart  into  a  mere  iron  chest — a 
coffer  that  no  human  key  can  open.  They  breed 
only  lust  and  greed,  as  the  muck-heap  hatches 
vipers,  and  case  the  soul  in  an  impenetrable  armor 
of  selfishness,  whereas  the  treasures  of  the  mind 
are  as  generous  as  wine  to  the  spirit,  unlocking 
the  heart  and  the  whole  nature.  Did  these  noble 
fellows,"  he  cried,  as  he  seized  the  volumes  that 
lay  on  the  table  before  him,  and  hugged  them 


202  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

fondly  to  his  bosom, "  play  the  misers  with  their 
precious  possessions  ?"  Did  these  lords  of  Wis 
dom's  broad  manor  fence  in  their  estate,  and  keep 
the  ever-green  fields  of  their  fancy  and  philosophy 
to  themselves  ?  or  did  they  give  them  as  a  park 
to  all  the  world,  for  even  the  poorest  to  ramble 
and  sport  in  ?  Yes,  they  shared  their  gifts  and 
gems  freely  with  such  as  me,  and  so  made  poor 
me  almost  as  rich  as  themselves.  And  what  would 
I  do  now  ?  why,  I'd  fall  upon  my  very  knees  to 
you,  if  I  could  but  get  you  and  this  lad  here  to 
share  this  same  wealth  with  me  in  return — only 
to  make  you  feel  the  same  foretaste  of  heaven  as 
I  do  when  communing  with  these  great  souls, 
spirit  to  spirit,  and  giving  back  love  for  love." 

Then  he  paused  for  a  moment ;  and  suddenly 
tossing  his  head  till  his  long  hair  shook  like  a 
lion's  mane,  he  scowled  at  some  imaginary  social 
jackanapes  as  he  asked  indignantly,  "  Who  dares 
taunt  me  Avith  lack  of  fortune  or  want  of  fine 
friends,  when  I  have  Will  Shakspeare  here  day 
after  day  by  my  side,  humming  the  sweet  music 
of  his  sonnets  in  my  ear  ?  Why,  if  I  knew  all  the 
high  and  mighty  carriage-folk  of  the  town,  could 
it  be  half  as  grand  to  ride  out  with  them  as  it  is 
to  travel  with  the  spirit  of  John  Milton  into  the 
very  heavens  themselves,  and  hear  the  blind  old 
poet  pour  forth  his  wondrous  pa3an  on  the  light  ? 
Can  such  as  I  feel  it  a  privation  to  be  denied  the 
fellowship  of  empty-headed  lords  and  dukes,  when 
here,  in  my  garret,  I  can  have  the  best  of  all  good 
company — the  very  pick  of  the  noblest  blood  that 
ever  flowed  in  human  veins  ?  Am  I  sad  ?  then 
can  I  not  have  Butler  here  to  make  me  laugh 
with  the  quaint  wit  and  odd  logic  of  his  Hudi- 
bras  ?  If  the  hours  hang  heavy  with  me,  are  not 
Herrick,  Carew,  and  Suckling  ready  to  sing  to 
me  ?  Do  I  want  to  learn  how  the  world  wags  ? 


PLEASURE-HUNTING. 

why  Massinger,  and  Ford,  and  Webster,  and  Beau 
mont  and  Fletcher,  ay,  and  Shakspeare  himself, 
will  come  at  my  beck  to  show  me  how  the  pup 
pets  are  moved  by  every  passion,  and  to  lay  open 
my  own  and  every  other  heart  before  my  eyes,  as 
if  poor  human  nature  was  but  a  piece  of  clever 
clock-work.  Or,  if  I  long  to  travel,  is  there  not 
brave  Raleigh  waiting  to  take  me  with  him  round 
the  world  ?  Or,  if  my  mood  bo  more  sedate,  can 
I  not  invite  old  Burton  here  to  charm  me  with 
his  wonderful  lore  of  melancholy  ?  ay,  and  even, 
if  I  please,  get  Newton,  or  Bacon,  or  Hobbes  to 
talk  philosophy  with  me,  and  lay  bare  the  subtle 
mechanism  of  the  universe  itself?  Ah!  my 
friend,"  he  added,  as  his  face  beamed  with  all  the 
refined  pride  of  his  heart,  "  this  is  the  royal  pre 
rogative  of  intellect — the  blessed  privilege  that 
comes  from  a  devout  love  of  books.  It  can  make 
the  poorest  among  us  richer  than  the  richest; 
grant  luxuries  to  those  in  want  that  even  the 
beef-witted  Croesus  himself  could  not  purchase ; 
and  give  the  most  luckless  in  the  world  the  right 
of  fellowship  with  the  most  gifted  and  most  illus 
trious  of  mankind." 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  6. 
Again  the  scene  shifted,  and  the  lad  and  his 
uncle  were  away  in  the  suburbs  of  the  town,  at 
the  shooting  and  hunting  "box"  of  one  who 
thought  "  sport"  to  be  the  great  charm  of  life. 
Here,  as  they  entered,  a  kennel  of  fox-hounds 
made  the  woods  ring  with  their  cries,  and  dogs 
of  every  breed  met  them  at  every  turn.  There 
were  spare  and  high-haunched  greyhounds,  ready 
coupled  for  coursing ;  gentle-looking  and  docile 
pointers  and  setters,  with  their  eyes  ever  fixed 
on  their  master;  and  shock-coated  water-dogs, 
and  wiry  little  rat-dogs,  with  their  teeth  glisten- 


204  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

ing  like  gintraps,  as  they  snarled  at  the  new-com 
ers  ;  and  ugly-looking  bandy-legged  bull-dogs,  too, 
with  mouths  and  jowls  like  prize-fighters.  ^In  one 
of  the  out-houses  was  a  long-backed  ferret,  with 
hair  as  white  and  eyes  as  pink  as  an  albino,  ready 
for  the  next  day's  sport  at  the  rabbit-warren.  In 
another  there  were  globular  wire  cages  full  of 
brown  rats,  restless  as  a  knot  of  worms,  that  had 
been  trapped  to  settle  some  important  wager  as 
to  how  many  of  the  vermin  little  "  Wasp,"  with 
the  gintrap-like  teeth,  could  kill  within  the  hour. 

The  stables  were  filled  with  as  many  different 
kinds  of  horses  as  the  yards  swarmed  with  differ 
ent  breeds  of  dogs.  Here  was  the  satin-coated 
hunter,  with  limbs  almost  as  slender  as  those  of 
the  greyhounds ;  the  sturdy  little  shooting-pony, 
whose  legs  seemed  as  short  and  thick  as  those  of 
a  four-post  bedstead ;  and  the  fast-trotting  cob, 
that  had  done  its  fifteen  miles  within  the  hour, 
and  won  no  end  of  money  in  its  time. 

The  interior  of  the  house,  too,  was  as  typical 
of  the  tastes  of  the  owner  as  the  out-buildings 
themselves.  The  little  hall  bristled  with  antlers 
and  buffalo  horns  jutting  from  the  walls,  and  from 
the  hat-pegs  hung  huge  jack  fishing-boots  and 
hunting-whips,  while  the  rooms  within  were  liter 
ally  crowded  with  tokens  of  the  "  sporting  charac 
ter"  they  belonged  to.  The  sides  of  the  chamber 
into  which  they  were  shown  were  covered  with 
prints  of  celebrated  winners  of  races  ;  and  paint 
ings  of  favorite  horses,  with  some  favorite  groom 
standing  at  their  head;  and  representations  of 
far-famed  fast  trotters,  with  a  gentleman  in  a  tall 
skeleton  gig,  with  big  misty  wheels,  in  the  act  of 
scrambling  through  some  prodigious  feat  of  ve 
locity.  There  were  engravings,  too,  of  sundry 
shirtless  heroes,  in  knee-breeches  and  "  ankle- 
jacks,"  with  muscles  as  big  as  cannon  balls  un- 


PLEASUBE-HUNTING.  205 

der  the  skin,  striking  an  attitude  of  self-defense ; 
and  memorials  of  some  illustrious  encounter  be 
tween  two  chestnuty  and  fiery-faced  game-cocks, 
as  close  cropped  as  felons,  and  with  spurs  as  long 
as  cobblers'  awls  fitted  to  their  legs.  Then  there 
were  colored  sets  of  pictures  representative  of 
"going  to  cover,"  "breaking  cover,"  in  "full  cry," 
and  "  in  at  the  death,"  with  others  of  "  partridge 
shooting,"  and  "  wild-duck  shooting,"  and  bits  of 
"  still  life,"  together  with  a  huge  illustration  of 
some  extraordinary  leap  at  a  "steeple  chase," 
where  a  few  of  the  horses  and  riders  were  floun 
dering  in  the  brook,  others  flying  through  the 
air,  and  others  scrambling  with  their  steeds  up 
the  opposite  bank.  Moreover,  there  were  glass 
cases  filled  with  two  or  three  stuffed  partridges 
feeding  among  some  imitation  stubble,  and  an 
other  inclosing  an  enormous  preserved  pike,  with 
his  scales  as  highly  varnished  as  a  coach-panel. 
Upon  the  table  lay  foxes'  brushes  set  in  silver 
handles,  and  made  into  little  whisks  for  dusting 
knick-knacks ;  and  foxes'  heads  mounted  as  snuff 
boxes  ;  and  stags'  feet,  with  little  silver  hoofs,  fit 
ted  to  the  blades  of  knives ;  while  high  above  the 
mantle-piece  was  stretched  a  huge  wild  swan, 
with  wide-spread  wings,  that  measured  goodness 
knows  how  many  feet  from  tip  to  tip,  and  which 
had  been  shot  by  the  owner  of  the  establishment 
in  the  winter  of  such  and  such  a  year.  In  the 
different  corners  of  the  room,  too,  stood  the  sev 
eral  implements  of  the  sportsman's  art :  fishing- 
rods,  and  double-barreled  guns,  and  powder- 
flasks,  and  leathern  wallets  covered  with  netting, 
and  riding  and  driving  whips,  and  dog-whistles, 
and  spears  for  otter-hunting,  and  felt  hats  with 
the  crowns  wound  round  with  all  kinds  of  lines 
and  flies,  and  brown  leathern  leggins,  and  shoot 
ing-boots  as  heavy  and  clumsy-looking  as  navi- 


206  YOUNG    BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

gators',  ay,  and  boxing-gloves,  basket-hilted  sin 
gle-sticks,  targets,  and  cases  of  dueling  pistols  too. 
The  sportsman  himself  was  busy  at  his  morning 
meal  of  bread  and  chine,  with  a  tankard  of  foam 
ing  home-brewed  ale  by  his  side.  The  manner  in 
which  he  scrambled  down  the  food,  coupled  with 
the  scarlet  coat  and  black  velvet  cap  in  which  he 
was  costumed,  told  that  he  was  in  haste  to  join 
the  hounds  somewhere ;  and  as  he  munched  away, 
he  described  to  "his  visitors,  with  his  mouth  full, 
what  a  glorious  day  he  expected  to  have,  as  Squire 
So-and-so  had  recently  bought  a  score  of  foxes, 
and  turned  them  all  loose  on  his  estate,  for  really 
their  subscription  pack  had  pretty  well  cleared 
the  country  before  that.  Then  he  remembered 
some  particular  magnificent  run  they  had  had 
some  seasons  back,  and  gave  the  couple  a  vivid 
description  of  the  chase  as  he  filled  his  pocket- 
flask  with  brandy  from  the  liqueur-case.  Next, 
as  he  sat  down  to  exchange  his  slippers  for  the 
highly-polished  top-boots  that  stood  beside  the 
fireplace,  he  wanted  to  know  whether  the  young 
squire  there,  alluding  to  little  Ben,  had  ever  been 
at  a  hunt,  and  told  the  lad,  as  he  screwed  his 
mouth  up  till  his  face  looked  like  a  knocker,  and 
tugged  away  at  the  boot-hooks,  that  a  good  run 
was  the  finest  thing  in  life,  and  that  there  was 
nothing  like  fox-hunting  in  the  world.  After  that 
he  fell  to  hastily  admiring  the  boy's  figure,  ask 
ing  how  old  he  was,  and  calling  him  a  nice  little 
light  weight.  Then  he  wanted  to  know  whether 
he  had  ever  been  licked  at  school,  and  whether  he 
had  taken  any  lessons  yet  in  sparring ;  and  said 
he  wished  he  could  stop  and  put  the  gloves  on  for 
a  minute,  and  have  a  round  or  two  with  him. 
Presently  he  asked  Uncle  Ben  whether  he  had 
heard  of  the  match  that  he  had  coming  off  short 
ly;  he  had  staked  a  hundred  pounds  that  he 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  20T 

would  bring  down  nineteen  pigeons  out  of  twen 
ty — and  he  was  sure  to  win,  for  he  had  bagged 
thirty  brace  of  birds  in  a  few  hours  only  a  few 
days  back,  and,  what  was  more,  he  could  snuff'  a 
candle  with  his  dueling  pistols  at  twenty  paces 
three  times  out  of  four.  Then,  as  he  bustled 
about  the  room  (rummaging  among  the  litter  of 
fish-cans,  bullet-moulds,  boxing-gloves,  and  books 
of  flies,  now  for  his  riding-gloves,  and  now  for 
some  particular  pet  whip  that  he  wanted),  he  told 
the  boy  that  if  he  would  come  over  some  day  he'd 
give  him  a  ride  on  the  pony,  and  take  him  out 
for  a  day's  coursing,  and  then  he  should  see  some 
prime  sport,  if  he  liked,  when  the  dogs  slipped 
their  couples.  Why,  he  had  one  of  the  finest 
greyhounds  in  the  world,  the  sportsman  said,  and 
had  refused  a  hundred  guineas  for  her  over  and 
over  again.  But  he  only  wished  he  could  stop 
longer  with  them,  he  added,  as  he  slipped  his 
great-coat  over  his  scarlet  jacket,  though  he 
wouldn't  miss  the  meet  that  day  not  to  please  his 
own  father,  that  he  wouldn't.  So  he  shook  them 
both  heartily  by  the  hand,  and  then  hurrying  to 
the  door,  leaped  into  the  saddle  on  the  hunter 
young  Benjamin  had  noted  in  the  stable  but  a 
few  minutes  before,  and,  digging  his  spurs  into 
the  flanks  of  the  steed,  dashed  down  the  road, 
waving  his  little  nut-shell  of  a  hunting-cap  to 
young  Ben  as  he  turned  round  in  his  saddle,  and, 
cracking  his  whip,  shouted  "  Yoyicks !  Yup ! 
Yup !  Yoyicks !"  to  the  delighted  and  astonished 
boy. 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  7. 

The  next  character  they  visited  differed  again 
from  all  they  had  seen  before. 

It  w-as  neither  "  sport,"  nor  poetry,  nor  gold, 
nor  drink,  nor  yet  flowers  that  delighted  this  one, 


203  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FEANKLIN. 

but  merely  "  antiquities,"  as  they  are  called.  A 
mere  bit  of  old  brick — a  tile  marked  with  the 
stamp  of  one  of  the  Roman  legions  was  sufficient 
to  throw  the  old  antiquary  into  an  ecstasy  of  en 
thusiasm.  A  "celt"  —  an  axe  with  a  rude  flint 
head  —  had  greater  joy  for  him  than  the  finest 
work  of  art  in  the  world.  His  house  was  filled 
with  cabinets  and  glass  cases,  in  which  were 
stored  heaps  of  what  a  good  housewife  would 
have  denominated  "  rubbish,"  but  which,  in  the 
antiquary's  eyes,  were  far  more  precious  than 
gold.  The  old  oak  chairs  here  were  so  knubbly 
with  their  carvings  that  it  was  impossible  to  rest 
either  the  back  or  arms  against  them  without 
their  leaving  a  series  of  lumps  and  bumps  on  the 
flesh;  the  spoons  were  all  "apostle  spoons,"  as 
they  are  called,  and  so  knobby  that  they  could  not 
be  held  with  any  comfort ;  the  walls  were  hung 
with  bits  of  tapestry  that  were  as  ragged  as  a  beg 
gar's  smock ;  the  pictures,  queer  old  things,  with 
gilt  backgrounds,  and  figures  of  saints  as  limp- 
looking  as  your  "  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon ;" 
the  china,  too,  was  of  the  queerest  shapes  and 
patterns,  while  the  ornaments  consisted  of  small 
bits  of  tesselated  pavement  dug  up  from  some 
ancient  Roman  station,  and  which  seemed  like 
fragments  of  petrified  draught-boards;  besides 
little  green-crusted  and  worn  bronze  urns,  and 
small  Egyptian  clay  figures  that  had  been  found 
buried  with  mummies,  together  with  cracked 
Etruscan  vases,  and  noseless  Grecian  busts,  and 
statues  without  arms,  that  had  much  the  look  of 
Greenwich  pensioners  "in  the  abstract."  Then 
there  were  satin  cases  filled  with  coins  that  had 
no  more  impression  left  on  them  than  a  charity- 
boy's  metal  buttons ;  copies  of  hieroglyphic  in 
scriptions,  and  models  of  the  Parthenon  and  Co 
losseum  ;  tiny  copies  of  Cleopatra's  Needle  and 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  209 

Trajan's  Column,  and  an  infinity  of  odds  and  ends 
besides — all  of  'which  had  cost  no  end  of  money, 
time,  and  patience  to  collect,  as  well  as  study  and 
learning  to  comprehend,  and  which  the  queer  little 
old  gentleman  (who  was  only  too  delighted  to 
exhibit  them  to  little  Ben)  frankly  confessed,  as 
he  led  the  couple  round  the  place,  that  he  had 
nearly  ruined  himself  in  getting  together,  and  he 
had  serious  thoughts,  he  said,  of  leaving  it  all  to 
the  nation  after  his  death. 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  KTo.  8. 

After  this  the  lad  was  conducted  to  an  invent 
or's  house,  and  here  he  found  the  rooms  filled  with 
curious  models  of  machinery,  and  working-draw 
ings  and  plans  of  the  queerest-looking  apparatus, 
while  the  doors  and  windows  were  fitted  with 
the  strangest  contrivances  by  way  of  fastenings. 
Here  were  extraordinary  kinds  of  pumps,  and  nov 
el  arrangements  of  water-wheels,  and  ships  with 
revolving  sails,  like  wind-mills,  and  flying  ma 
chines,  and  velocipedes,  and  vessels  to  travel  under 
the  water  or  along  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and 
boats  to  sail  upon  land,  and  plans  for  heating 
houses  too  by  flues  sunk  into  the  earth  to  such  a 
depth  as  always  to  insure  an  equable  temperature 
without  the  cost  of  fire.  Besides  designs  for  per 
petual  motion,  and  projects  for  discovering  the 
longitude,  and  new  motive  powers,  and  plans  for 
obtaining  an  inexpensive  and  inexhaustible  force 
by  taking  advantage  of  the  magnetism  of  the  earth. 

"This  notion  alone,"  said  the  sanguine  schemer, 
as  he  pointed  to  some  pet  notion,  "  is  worth  twen 
ty  thousand  guineas  at  least ;"  then  "  that,"  he 
told  them,  "  was  a  sure  fortune  to  any  one ;" 
while  if  another  "  only  answered,"  it  would  be 
impossible  for  any  one  to  estimate  the  amount  of 
money  it  would  realize. 
O 


210  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

Little  Ben  looked  with  inordinate  wonder  at 
the  individual  as  he  heard  him  speak  of  the  im 
mense  value  of  his  projects  one  after  another,  and 
marveled  how,  if  he  was  the  possessor  of  such  ex 
traordinary  wealth,  there  should  be  so  poverty- 
stricken  an  air  about  his  dwelling. 

Nor  was  the  boy's  astonishment  in  any  way 
decreased  when  he  heard  the  man,  as  he  stood 
on  the  door-steps  assuring  them  that  he  wouldn't 
take  a  hundred  thousand  guineas,  if  any  one 
would  lay  the  money  down  on  the  stones  before 
him,  for  even  a  half  share  in  his  flying  machine, 
whisper  immediately  afterward  in  his  uncle's  ear, 
just  before  leaving,  that  he'd  consider  it  a  great 
favor  if  he  would  let  him  have  half  a  dollar  for  a 
day  or  two. 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  9. 
From  the  inventor  the  couple  wended  their 
way  to  the  chief  astronomer  of  the  town,  and  this 
man  they  found  scarcely  able  to  speak  to  them, 
for  he  was  busy  sweeping  the  heavens  for  a  new 
planet,  which,  after  years  of  laborious  calculation, 
he  had  ascertained  should  exist  somewhere  be 
tween  the  orbits  of  Jupiter  and  Saturn.  He  had 
been  engaged  in  making  observations  upon  this 
matter  almost  night  and  day,  he  said,  for  the  last 
twelvemonth,  and  had  laid  out  hundreds  upon  a 
new  reflecting  telescope,  the  speculum  of  which 
alone  had  cost  more  than  half  the  money,  for  he 
was  determined  to  make  the  discovery  all  his 
own.  To  him  there  was  no  pleasure  but  in  watch 
ing  the  stars — no  use  for  money  but  in  the  pur 
chase  of  cquatorials,  astronomical  clocks,  transit 
instruments,  artificial  horizons,  mural  circles,  and 
micrometer  glasses,  etc.,  etc. 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  211 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  10. 

The  visit  to  the  astronomer  was  followed  by  a 
peep  into  the  household  of  an  entomologist,  where 
the  boy  found  the  study  of  the  stars  replaced  by 
that  of  insects. 

It  was  no  longer  distant  worlds,  but  the  tiniest 
things  on  earth  that  absorbed  the  entire  time  and 
means  of  this  individual.  Here  cases  of  spitted 
butterflies  and  cockchafers  delighted  the  big  baby, 
christened  "  philosopher."  Here  the  telescope 
was  laid  aside  for  the  microscope,  and  the  every 
day  world  of  human  passion  ignored  for  the  hid 
den  one  of  animalcular  life  and  habits.  The  inhab 
itants  of  a  drop  of  water  were,  to  the  magnified 
vision  of  this  particular  sage,  creatures  of  the  live 
liest  interest,  whereas  those  of  the  next  street 
were  hardly  worth  a  moment's  thought.  To  see 
the  blood  circulate  in  the  web  of  a  frog's  foot, 
this  worthy  spent  pounds  and  pounds  upon  an 
"  eighth,"  but  to  know  how  the  heart  of  man  was 
stirred  he  would  not  give  a  doit.  What  an  ex 
quisite-charm  there  was  to  him  in  enlarging  the 
dust  of  a  butterfly's  wing  to  the  magnitude  of  an 
ostrich's  feathers,  or  in  looking  at  the  proboscis 
of  a  blue-bottle  under  a  "  high  power!"  but  how 
"  stale, flat,  and  unprofitable"  to  bring  even  a  "low 
power"  to  bear  upon  the  parasites  of  society,  or 
to  scrutinize  the  economy  of  the  human  blood 
sucker  !  In  a  word,  to  brother  man  not  the  slight 
est  heed,  nor  even  a  penny  was  given,  whereas  to 
brother  tadpole  an  entire  life  and  a  small  fortune 
were  devoted. 

Even  little  Ben,  as  he  was  whirled,  so  to  speak, 
from  one  house  to  another  by  his  uncle,  and  in 
troduced  to  the  most  opposite  characters  in  rapid 
succession  (for  the  old  man  strove  to  bring  out 


212  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

the  "high  lights"  of  the  picture  of  human  life  in 
all  the  black  and  white  of  strong  contrast),  could 
hardly  help  philosophizing,  in  his  own  simple  way, 
upon  the  puzzling  problem  that  had  been  brought 
under  his  notice. 

"How  strange!"  mused  the  lad  to  himself,  as 
he  jogged  along ;  "  one  man  finds  no  pleasure  but 
in  studying  the  stars,  another  no  delight  but  in 
contemplating  insects ;  one  in  perpetually  spying 
through  magnifying  glasses  at  little  specks  of 
light  which  are  c  millions  of  miles  away,'  the  oth 
er  forever  looking  through  the  same  kind  of  glass 
es  at  tiny  creatures  that  are  almost  as  far  removed 
from  himself!  One  declares  there  is  no  happi 
ness  in  the  world  like  that  of  sporting ;  another 
vows  the  only  true  joy  is  to  be  found  in  books ; 
a  third  that  it  lies  in  show  and  dress.  One  sac 
rifices  every  thing  to  get  drink,  another  to  get 
money ;  this  one  to  collect  weeds  and  wild-flow 
ers,  and  that  man  to  collect  bits  of  old  pavement, 
old  tiles,  and  vases.  How  odd  it  is !  and  one  and 
all,  too,  are  ready  to  give  up  their  lives  and  for 
tunes  to  their  particular  pursuit." 

The  view  of  life  seemed  as  inconsistent  to  the 
little  fellow  as  the  jumble  of  scenes  in  a  dream. 

"Ha!  my  man,"  smiled  Uncle  Benjamin,  de 
lighted  to  listen  to  the  boy's  reflections,  "  I  dare 
say  the  riddle  of  human  nature  does  puzzle  you  a 
good  bit ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  occasionally 
puts  me  to  my  wit's  end  to  comprehend  it,  even 
old  stager  as  I  am,  and  up  to  most  of  the  antics 
of  the  mummers  too.  To  run  the  round  of  one's 
acquaintances  in  this  way,  lad,  and  see  the  differ 
ent  characters  one  meets  with  in  his  journeys 
from  house  to  house,  is  to  my  mind  very  much 
like  going  over  a  large  lunatic  asylum,  and  learn 
ing,  as  you  pass  from  cell  to  cell,  the  various  queer 
manias  with  which  the  several  inmates  are  pos 
sessed." 


PLEASUKE-HUNTING.  213 

But  there  was  no  time  just  then  to  reason  on 
the  matter:  the  first  object  was  to  see  and  ob 
serve  ;  to  draw  conclusions  was  an  after  consider 
ation.  So  on  the  old  man  and  boy  hurried  to  in 
spect  some  more  of  the  shows  in  the  great  "Van 
ity  Fair." 

"  Walk  up  !  walk  up  !"  cried  Uncle  Ben  to  the 
lad  as  they  approached  the  next  human  curiosity, 
"  and  see  now  the  most  celebrated  epicure  in  all 
the  town." 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  11. 

They  met  the  worthy,  hobbling  along  with  a 
punnet  of  tomatoes  in  his  hand  (with  one  ele 
phantine  foot  done  up  in  flannel,  and  incased  in  a 
huge  list  slipper),  on  his  way  to  the  fishmonger's 
at  the  end  of  the  street  where  he  lived ;  and 
there,  as  he  stood  picking  out  a  prime  bit  of  sal 
mon — "just  a  pound  or  two  from  the  thick  part 
of  the  fish" — he  told  them  how  he  had  been  suf 
fering  from  his  "  old  friend  the  gout,"  though  he 
was  happy  to  say  his  dyspepsia  was  a  leetle  bet 
ter,  for  he  had  been  dieting  himself  a  good  bit  of 
late.  He  had  cut  off  his  "  night-cap"  of  Maras 
chino  punch  after  supper,  he  said,  for  he  had 
found  out  at  last  that  that  had  been  doing  him  a 
deal  of  harm,  though  it  was  delicious  tipple,  to  be 
sure.  Then  he  had  given  up  his  toast  and  caviar 
in  the  middle  of  the  day ;  for  his  medical  man  had 
told  him  caviar  was  too  rich  for  him,  and  that 
really  his  stomach  was  so  weak  that  he  must  be 
most  careful  about  what  he  ate — most  careful. 

"  You  see,  Franklin,"  continued  the  gourmand, 
as  he  jerked  at  his  acre  of  waistcoat,  that  was 
dappled  with  gravy-spots  all  down  the  front,  and 
tried  to  force  it  over  the  huge  wen  of  a  stomach 
that  bulged  out  like  the  distended  crop  of  an 
enormous  pouter  pigeon,  "  you  see,  Franklin,  I 


214  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

make  flesh  so  fast  that,  do  what  I  will,  T  can't 
prevent  myself  running  into  corpulency.  Why, 
I've  even  reduced  my  quantum  of  Madeira,  I  give 
you  my  word,  to  half  a  pint  per  diem  ;  and  if 
there's  one  thing  I  like  more  than  another,"  he 
added,  by  way  of  parenthesis,  "  it  certainly  is  a 
glass  of  good  Madeira ;  but  it  must  be  good,  you 
know,  Franklin  —  good,  or  it's  apt  to  turn  acid 
with  me ;  for  my  medical  man  assures  me  all  fer 
mented  liquors  make  fat.  But,  though  I  go  on 
with  my  dinner-pills  (and  my  doctor,  I  must  say, 
has  given  me  one  of  the  best  pills  of  that  kind  I 
ever  met  with),  and  take  more  exercise  than  I 
used,  still,  the  deuce  is  in  it,  I  can't  keep  the  bulk 
down — carft  keep  it  under,  Franklin,  anyhow;" 
and  again  the  worthy  gave  another  twitch  at  the 
waistcoat,  that  would  keep  rucking  up  over  the 
rolls  of  his  abdomen. 

Then,  having  at  length  settled  about  the  fish, 
he  slipped  one  arm  into  that  of  the  elder  Benjamin, 
and  resting  the  hand  of  the  other  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  younger  one  (for  he  had  given  the  boy  the 
little  basket  of  love-apples  to  carry),  he  began 
hobbling  back  to  his  house  between  the  two, 
stopping  every  now  and  then  to  writhe  with  the 
agony  of  some  passing  twinge. 

"  Why  I  should  be  plagued  with  this  infernal 
gout  as  I  am,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  stood  still  in 
the  street,  and  screwed  his  face  up  till  it  assumed 
the  expression  of  a  compressed  gutta-percha  head, 
"I'm  sure  I  can't  tell.  My  doctor  says  it's  all 
stomach ;  and  heaven  knows  no  man  can  be  more 
particular  about  his  feeding  than  I  am.  Indeed, 
I  never  could  bear  coarse  food,  Franklin — never. 
I  think  every  one  of  my  friends  will  allow  that. 
But  the  misfortune  is,  you  see,  I  have  such  deli 
cate  nerves,  though  few  persons  would  think  it, 
perhaps,  in  a  man  of  my  build ;  but  I  can  assure 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  215 

you  my  belief  is  that  it's  nerves — nerves — or  I 
may  say,  indeed,  a  natural  want  of  stamina — that 
is  at  the  bottom  of  all  my  sufferings.  The  least 
thing  I  take  seems  to  disagree  with  me.  Now 
what  was  my  dinner  yesterday:  why,  nothing 
could  have  been  simpler  in  the  world,  Franklin — 
nothing.  First  I  had  just  a  little  vermicelli  soup, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  grated  Parmesan  over  it. 
By-the-by,  Franklin,"  he  asked  suddenly,  as  he 
stopped  and  looked  Uncle  Benjamin  full  in  the 
face,  "  did  you  ever  try  the  grated  cheese  with 
the  vermicelli  ?  Well,  do  !  I  give  you  my  word 
it's  a  marvelous  improvement — m-m-mar-velous ! 
Then  there  was  a  little  water-souci ;  and  you 
know  there's  nothing  lighter  than  water-souci  in 
the  world ;  but  it's  a  favorite  dish  of  mine,  Frank 
lin,  for,  'pon  my  honor,  I  think  it's  the  most  deli 
cate  flavor  in  life ;  and  with  this,  of  course,  there 
was  just  a  simple  glass  of  Madeira  to  wash  it 
down.  Well,  after  that  came  a  small  dish  of  lamb 
chops,  breaded,  with  sauce  piquante,  for  you  know 
I  am  quite  alone,  Franklin"  (he  added,  parenthet 
ically),  "  and  can't  indulge  in  heavy  joints,  even  if 
my  poor  stomach  would  allow  me ;  or  else,  I  must 
confess,  I  certainly  should  have  preferred  a  kib- 
bob  of  mutton — did  you  ever  eat  a  kibbob,  Frank 
lin  ?  Well,  take  my  advice,  and  have  one  im-me- 
diately,  and  you'll  live  to  bless  me  for  the  counsel ; 
and  besides  these  things,  there  was  just  a  couple 
of  kidneys  sauteed  with  Champagne,  and  a  field 
fare  or  two  stuffed  with  juniper-berries,  and  served 
with  juniper  sauce — the  latter  a  thing  that  my 
cook  does  divinely,  I  can  assure  you — fiLeo-vinelyf 
And  then  for  sweets — though  I'm  not  much  of  a 
sweet-eater,  certainly — there  was  a — let  me  see, 
what  did  I  have  yesterday  ?"  and  again  he  made 
them  both  stand  still  as  he  reflected — "  cocoanut 
pudding,  was  it  ?  no,  no !  that  was  the  day  when 


216  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

Tom  Skeffington  dined  with  me,  and  he  went  into 
such  raptures  about  the  dish,  and  would  make  me 
give  him  the  receipt  for  it.  Oh  yes,  I  know  now ; 
it  was — "  (and  he  screwed  his  face  again  into  all 
the  distortions  of  a  gorgon's  head  as  he  interject 
ed,  "  Hang  the  gout !) — it  was — what  is  such  a 
special  favorite  of  mine — a  cranberry  tart,  with  a 
custard  or  two.  You  see,  Franklin,  the  custard 
takes  off  the  roughness  of  the  cranberry ;  and  if 
it  has  just  a  dash  of  vanilla  in  it,  by  way  of  fla 
voring,  I  give  you  my  word  it's  most  luscious — 
most  1 — 1 — luscious !"  he  repeated.  "  You  try  it, 
Franklin  ;  now  do,  just  to  oblige  me,  for  I'm  sure 
you'll  think  it  one  of  the  greatest  treats  in  life. 

"Well,  now,  although  that — with  just  an  olive 
or  two,  and  a  griddle-cake  to  relish  my  wine, 
with  a  thimbleful  of  cherry-water  as  a  digester  to 
finish — constituted  the  whole  of  my  yesterday's 
dinner,"  the  epicure  went  on,  "  and  I'm  sure,  as  I 
said  before,  nothing  could  be  simpler  or  lighter ; 
still,  you'd  hardly  believe  it,  sir,  but  when  I  got 
up  this  morning  my  tongue  was  furred — quite 
furred,  I  give  you  my  honor ;  and  it  wasn't  un 
til  I  had  taken  a  glass  of  brandy  and  soda-water 
that  I  could  touch  the  least  bit  of  the  delicious 
cold  partridge  pie  I  had  got  for  breakfast." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  gourmand's 
house ;  and  as  Uncle  Benjamin  was  preparing  to 
depart,  the  epicure  held  his  hand  firmly  locked  in 
his  as  he  kept  shaking  it,  while  he  said, "  No,  no, 
Franklin,  I  couldn't  think  of  letting  you  go  in 
this  way.  You  really  must  come  in  now ;  why, 
I  thought  you'd  stop  and  take  potluck  with  me 
to-day.  I  should  make  no  stranger  of  you,  you 
know.  There's  only  that  little  bit  of  salmon  you 
saw  me  buying  (though  it  was  a  splendid  fish,  to 
be  sure;  and,  with  a  little  cucumber,  I  should 
think,  would  eat  superbly — su-perbly!)  and  just  a 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  217 

wild  duck,  with  a  few  little  kickshaws,  of  course, 
besides ;  and  something  or  other  by  way  of  pastry 
— such  as  some  pine-apple  beignets — to  wind  up 
with.  Well,  I  can't  offer  you  any  thing  better 
to-day.  But  I'll  tell  you  what,  Franklin,  if  you'll 
promise  to  honor  me  another  time,  and  only  let 
me  know  forty-eight  hours  beforehand,  why,  I'll 
have  something  recherche  for  you — truly  ree- 
cherche,  I  will,  indeed." 

But  Uncle  Benjamin  only  shook  his  head; 
whereupon  the  other  added,  "  Oh,  I  don't  mean 
to  say  I  should  put  myself  much  out  of  the  way 
for  you ;  but  we  will  have  just  a  nice  little  dinner, 
that's  all — one  of  the  bachelor  tete-a-tete  affairs, 
that  I  believe  I  can  manage  as  well  as  most  peo 
ple.  Say,  for  instance,  a  few  smelts  and  a  canvas- 
back  duck  stewed  with  turnips.  By-the-by,  did 
you  ever  taste  the  canvas-backs  that  way  ?  They're 
simply  delicious,  I  can  assure  you — dee-licious  ! — 
especially  if  you  insist  upon  the  cook  browning 
the  turnips  well  before  he  stews  them.  Ay,  and 
then,  my  boy,"  he  cried,  as  he  tapped  the  other 
on  the  shoulder,  "  you  shall  taste  my  new  sauce. 
Dear  me !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  I  had  invented  a 
new  sauce;  how  oblivious  of  me,  to  be  sure! 
Well,  you  know,  Franklin,  I've  been  after  the 
thing  for  years — indeed,  for  years  and  years,  I 
may  say,  but  I  never  could  get  it  to  please  me 
exactly  somehow.  However,  at  last,  just  one  lit 
tle  condiment  extra  settled  it ;  and  now  every 
body  pronounces  it  to  be — perfection !  simply 
per-r-/ection !"  he  shouted,  and  enforced  the  mer 
its  of  the  article  with  so  vigorous  a  thump  on 
Uncle  Benjamin's  collar-bone  that  the  old  gentle 
man  fairly  staggered  under  the  blow.  "  Oh,  it's 
the  most  exquisite  flavor  in  life,  I  give  you  my 
word.  I'm  going  to  call  it,"  he  ran  on,  " ' Sauce 
d  la? — what's  his  name  ?  Lord  bless  me !  I  shall 


213  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

forget  my  own  name  next.  You  know — I  call  it 
after  the  celebrated  French  cook  of  Louis  the 
Fourteenth's  time — the  cook,  you  remember,  who 
committed  suicide  because  the  fish,  poor  fellow ! 
didn't  arrive  till  long  after  the  hour  the  dinner 
was  ordered  for.  Sad  thing,  wasn't  it  ?  and  you 
know  they  do  say,  Franklin^his  bashawed  lobster 
was  a  thing  to  eat  and  then  die.  But  you'll  come 
in  and  have  just  a  glass  of  my  Amontillado,  with 
a  teaspoonful  of  orange  bitters  in  it — just  one, 
now — to  give  you  an  appetite  for  your  dinner, 
man,"  he  added,  pulling  at  the  arm  of  the  uncle 
as  he  struggled  to  depart.  "  Well,  well,  if  you 
will  go,  you  must,  I  suppose ;"  and  then,  as  the 
epicure  knocked  at  the  door,  he  turned  round  and 
cried, "  But,  by-the-by,  Franklin,  would  you  mind, 
as  you  pass  the  corner  of  the  next  street,  calling 
in  at  the  green-grocer's  there  for  me — you  know 
the  nice  store  where  they  have  always  the  win 
dow  stocked  with  such  a  superb  show  of  the  bet 
ter  kinds  of  fruits  and  vegetables,  and  telling 
them  to  send  me  a  punnet  of  their  very  best  sea- 
kale?  Please  to  say  it  must  be  the  very  best, 
and  that  I've  made  up  my  mind  I  won't  give 
more  than  half  a  dollar  the  basket  for  it;  for 
that's  quite  enough  money,  I'm  sure,  at  this  time 
of  year.  I  wouldn't  trouble  you,  Franklin,  but 
really  this  gout,"  and  he  made  another  ugly  face 
as  he  emphasized  the  words,  "  is  the  most  excru 
ciating  torture,  I  can  assure  you — ex-x-croo-ciat- 
ing!" 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  12. 
Nor  did  the  gallery  of  character  portraits  cease 
here.  Uncle  Ben  was  anxious  that  his  little  pupil 
should  see  every  phase  of  human  eccentricity  of 
which  he  could  muster  a  specimen  among  the 
circle  of  his  acquaintance ;  so  now  he  took  the 


PLEASUKE-HUNTING.  219 

lad  to  some  inveterate  politician,  and  let  him  see 
how  this  man's  thoughts  and  time  were  entirely 
absorbed  in  attending  vestries,  and  denouncing 
the  overseers  of  the  parish  as  the  "  robbers  of  the 
poor,"  in  opposing  rates,  influencing  elections,  in 
declaiming  at  public  meetings,  and  holding  forth 
to  the  fuddled  frequenters  of  bar-parlors  in  the 
evening  on  the  rascalities  of  all  governments,  the 
dishonesty  of  ministers,  and  the  rights  of  man,  as 
well  as  the  iniquities  of  the  taxes. 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  13. 
Next  he  would  lead  the  little  fellow  to  some 
gentleman  turner,  who  spent  hundreds  upon  a 
lathe,  his  rose-engines,  and  eccentric  chucks,  and 
who  passed  his  days  in  amateur  carpentering  and 
cabinet-making,  with  a  French  polished  mahogany 
tool-chest,  and  the  most  elegant  rosewood-han 
dled  chisels  and  gimlets ;  turning  now  ivory  cups, 
and  balls,  and  chess-men,  and  now  fanciful  needle- 
cases,  and  thimbles,  and  tobacco-stoppers  for  his 
friends,  or  else  fashioning  marquetry-work,  or 
buhl  work-tables,  or  mounting  fire-screens  for  the 
more  favored  ladies  of  his  acquaintance. 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  14. 
And  after  this  the  boy  would  be  introduced  to 
some  experimental  chemist,  and  find  this  strange 
specimen  of  humanity  surrounded  with  retorts, 
alembics,  stills,  crucibles,  and  furnaces;  gasome 
ters,  thermometers,  and  pyrometers;  together 
with  specific-gravity  scales  and  acetometers,  ba 
rometers,  hygrometers,  and  eudiometers ;  blow 
pipes  and  test-tubes;  electrifying  machines  and 
magnets ;  and,  indeed,  such  an  infinity  of  necro 
mantic-looking  apparatus,  that  made  little  Ben 
regard  the  proprietor  of  the  laboratory  more  as 
sorcerer  than  saore. 


220  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

Then  here  the  youth  would  learn  that  the  grand 
object  of  life  and  study  was  to  separate  some 
lump  of  earth,  or  bottle  of  liquid,  or  jar  of  air, 
into  its  elements,  or  to  compound  some  new  body 
out  of  the  different  kinds  of  matter  existing  in 
the  world.  Here  he  was  told  that  the  pursuit 
of  truth  for  truth's  own  sake  was  the  noblest 
thing  in  life;  that  poetry  was  mere  prettiness, 
and  added  nothing  either  to  man's  knowledge 
of  the  world  in  which  he  was  placed,  nor  to  his 
progress  in  it ;  that  there  was  a  profound  charm 
in  lighting  on  a  new  discovery,  or  evolving  some 
new  fact  or  law  in  nature,  which  transcended  all 
other  forms  of  happiness ;  that  the  study  of  the 
subtle  forces  of  creation — the  secret  affinities  of 
things — the  strange  sympathy  of  this  bit  of  mat 
ter  writh  that,  and  its  inexplicable  antipathy  to 
some  other  substance — the  continued  contempla 
tion  of  those  wondrous  powers  in  the  world,  lying 
as  they  did  at  the  very  heart  of  the  great  mys 
tery  of  nature  and  life,  yielded  a  delight — the 
philosopher  assured  the  boy — that  at  once  satis 
fied,  enlightened,  and  elevated  the  mind. 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  15. 
But  scarcely  had  the  words  of  the  natural  phi 
losopher  died  in  the  little  fellow's  ear  than  he  was 
in  the  studio  of  a  young  artist ;  and  him  he  found 
as  enthusiastic  about  art  and  its  glories  as  the 
philosopher  had  been  about  science,  or  the  poet 
loud  in  his  praises  of  poetry ;  for  the  young  paint 
er  spoke  of  the  old  masters  with  all  the  venera 
tion  of  a  zealot  and  the  affection  of  a  son.  Now 
it  was  "  magnificent  old  Michael  Angelo ;"  then, 
"  glorious  old  Rembrandt ;"  and  "  dear  old  Ru 
bens  ;"  and  "  fine  old  Titian."  He  loved  them, 
and  worshiped  them,  every  one,  he  said,  with  all 
the  intensity  of  a  woman's  affection ;  and  when 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  221 

he  had  gone  into  raptures  at  the  mere  remem 
brance  of  the  special  excellence  of  each,  as  the 
vision  of  their  works  flitted  one  after  another 
before  his  mind,  he  asked,  "  What  is  all  art  but 
the  highest  type  of  power  in  man,  even  as  the 
Almighty  himself  is  the  Great  Artist  above  all, 
because  He  is  the  All-powerful?  Are  not  the 
works  of  God  signal  evidences  of  God's  tran 
scendent  art  ?  and  is  not  this  art  the  chief  evi 
dence  we  have  of  His  transcendent  power  ?  We, 
lad,"  he  said  to  the  boy, "  are  but  the  poor  copiers 
of  the  one  great  work — the  one  grand  tableau  of 
creation,  and  he  the  Great  Original ;  we  but  the 
mere  shufflers  of  the  infinite  varieties  of  form 
about  us  into  new  arrangements,  and  He  the 
Great  Inventor  of  all  forms  and  figures ;  we  but 
the  petty  balancers  of  light  and  shade,  He  the 
great  Creator  of  the  clear  and  the  obscure  through 
out  the  world.  And  while  it  costs  us  poor  paint 
ers  inordinate  pains  and  study  to  compound  our 
colors  and  give  luminousness  to  our  works,  He, 
by  the  mere  craft  of  His  will,  illuminated  His 
handiwork  with  infinite  brightness  in  an  instant, 
and  made  the  lovely  landscape  of  the  new-born 
earth  flash  into  a  thousand  different  hues  with 
but  one  touch  of  the  wondrous  pencils  of  light  as 
they  fell  upon  the  woods,  the  fields,  the  mountain 
peaks,  and  the  sky,  for  the  first  time  of  all.  If, 
then,"  said  the  artist,  "  there  be  art  in  divinity,  at 
least  there  must  be  some  touch  of  divinity  in  art. 
"  The  Divine  attributes,"  the  painter  went  on, 
"  are  goodness,  wisdom,  and  power,  and  the  hu 
man  exponents  of  these  qualities  in  the  world  are 
the  clergyman,  the  philosopher,  and  the  artist; 
but  the  artist  transcends  all.  Art,  for  instance, 
must  take  precedence  of  science ;  for  what  is  all 
natural  science  but  the  explanation  of  God  Al 
mighty's  art  as  seen  in  the  works  of  creation, 


222  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

even  as  all  criticism  is  but  the  expounding  of  hu 
man  art  as  displayed  in  the  works  of  man's  im 
agination.  Human  wisdom  comes  from  experi 
ence,  but  art  is  intuitive,  lying  in  the  innate  per 
ception  of  the  beautiful,  and  the  inherent  faculty 
to  render  it  either  pictorially,  musically,  or  poet 
ically.  Again,  without  a  sense  of  art  there  could 
be  no  worship ;  for  the  feeling  of  worship  comes 
only  from  the  admiration  and  the  reverence  that 
a  sense  of  the  mighty  power  manifested  in  all 
objects  of  creation  naturally  begets  in  the  mind. 
There  is  indeed,"  he  said,  "  a  spontaneous  wor- 
shipfulness  naturally  uprising  from  the  love  and 
appreciation  of  art ;  for  who  could  be  conscious 
of  standing  in  the  august  presence  of  a  power  in 
finitely  superior  to  his  own,  without  a  feeling  of 
veneration  for  the  All-powerful  overshadowing 
and  humbling  his  soul  ?" 

"Did  not  the  zealous  old  painters  pray" — he 
asked — "  pray  as  few  pray  nowadays,  before  they 
dared  to  try  and  hobble  after  the  great  creative 
power?  and  who  but  a  man  accustomed  to  be 
continually  thinking  of  the  Artist  in  all  the  wrorks 
he  looks  upon — to  have  an  ever-abiding  sense  of 
the  prompter,  as  it  were,  behind  the  scenes — could 
contemplate  nature  with  half  the  reverence  in  his 
eye  and  mind  that  a  true  and  high  artist  really 
does  ?  To  such  a  one  a  glorious  picture  is  not  a 
mere  piece  of  prettily-colored  canvas,  nor  a  no 
ble  statue  only  an  elegant  toy  in  stone.  No  !" 
the  painter  exclaimed,  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of 
his  ardent  and  reverent  spirit ;  "  the  exquisite 
counterpart  of  nature  hanging  against  the  Avail  is 
to  the  artistic  sense  radiant  with  all  the  glory  of 
the  counterpart  of  the  divinity  that  created  it, 
and  the  marble  bust  animate  with  all  the  fine  in 
telligence  and  power  of  the  divine  spirit  that 
made  the  stony  bosom  heave  with  life.  Even  so 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  223 

the  world  of  beauty  itself,  which,  to  the  blear  eyes 
of  the  vulgar,  the  prosaic,  and  ascetic,  is  but  a 
prettiness,  or  utility,  or  a  vanity  at  best,  appears 
to  the  artist,  who  is  ever  thinking  of  the  Artist  in 
all  he  sees  and  admires,  as  a  gorgeous,  colored, 
and  jeweled  veil,  through  which  the  unspeakable 
grandeur ^  of  the  Godhead  is  everlastingly  beam 
ing  with  infinite  love  and  grace  upon  mankind." 

RATIONAL  ANIMAL  No.  16. 
The  musician,  whom  the  boy  saw  soon  after 
ward,  discoursed  nearly  to  the  same  tune,  though 
with  some  slight  variation.  To  him  there  was  a 
lovely  melody  forever  flowing  through  all  crea 
tion  ;  the  very  succession  of  the  seasons  —  the 
passage  from  night  to  day — the  revolution  of  the 
planets — the  rush  of  comets — the  stately  proces 
sion  of  the  clouds — the  mighty  surging  of  the 
tides — the  pulsing  of  the  human  heart — all  this 
was  but  the  latent  music  of  the  world,;  for  to  the 
finely-attuned  ear  and  mind  it  suggested  a  corre 
sponding  rhythm  of  melodious  and  stirring  sounds, 
that  seemed  like  the  distant  hum  of  the  great  an 
gelic  choir  heard  in  the  soul,  even  as  one  hears  the 
murmuring  of  the  waves  in  the  shell  after  it  has 
been  cast  out  of  its  ocean  home.  There  was  no 
joy,  the  musician  told  the  youth,  so  pure,  so  en 
trancing,  so  transporting  as  that  of  music.  It  fell 
like  an  ethereal  dew  upon  the  fevered  spirit  of 
man,  and  flowed  like  the  softest  and  subtlest  balm 
into  the  wounds  of  the  bruised  heart.  It  was  the 
manna  of  the  mind— a  kind  of  honeyed  rain  from 
heaven,  sent  down  to  sustain  us  in  the  wilderness 
of  life  and  trouble.  "  What  would  the  voice  of 
man  be  without  its  natural  tones  ?"  the  musician 
inquired.  "  Why,  words,"  he  answered,  "  were 
the  mere  black  and  white  of  speech ;  it  was  tone 
and  expression  that  gave  its  true  color  to  Ian- 


224  YOUNG  BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

guage.  Was  there  not  an  innate  and  special 
rhythm  to  each  particular  feeling — a  different 
key-note  to  almost  every  different  passion  in  our 
souls  ?  Fear  shrieked  in  discord,  whereas  love 
always  lisped  in  music.  Then  the  universal  har 
monies  of  things  that  philosophers  and  poets 
spoke  so  much  about — what  was  this  but  the  light 
melting  into  melody  as  it  fell  on  Memnon's  head  ? 
All  science  was  but  the  music  of  reason — the  har 
monizing  of  different  passages  from  the  great  op 
era  which  was  forever  being  performed  about  us ; 
while  all  art  was  but  the  attempt  of  a  few  fiddlers 
to  "  render"  the  grand  organ-peal  of  the  universe 
— to  give  expression  to  some  stray  little  bit  of 
special  beauty,  that  the  spirit  fancies  it  has  caught 
up  from  the  works  of  the  Great  Master.  Every 
thing  was  music,  music  every  thing." 

Little  Ben  was  bewildered  beyond  utterance 
with  what  he  heard.  "Which  was  right?"  he 
kept  wondering ;  "  which  was  right  ?"  But,  be 
fore  he  could  give  vent  to  any  thing  beyond  the 
crudest  astonishment,  the  uncle  had  brought  him 
to  some  fresh  "  rara  avis"  among  men — some  new 
version  of  life's  whims  and  oddities. 

And  when  the  boy  had  been  taken  to  see  trav 
elers  and  philologists;  tulip-fanciers,  entomolo 
gists,  and  meteorologists ;  chess-players  and  phys*- 
iognomists  (there  were  no  phrenologists  nor  mes 
merists  in  those  days),  old  book  collectors  and  stat 
isticians,  or  mere  fact  and  figure  collectors ;  ama 
teur  actors,  amateur  sailors,  and  amateur  stage- 
coachmen  as  well— -ay,  and  almost  the  whole  army 
of  your  hobby-horse  volunteers  in  existence,  the 
tutor  and  his  pupil  at  length  returned  home,  fair 
ly  tired  out  with  their  excursions  in  quest  of  the 
pleasure-seekers  of  human  life. 

"  But,  uncle,"  said  little  Ben,  for  the  hundredth 


PLEASURE-HUNTING.  225 

time  of  asking,  as  they  sat  resting  their  outstretch 
ed  limbs  in  front  of  the  wood  fire  in  the  little 
back  parlor  of  the  candle-store,  "  of  all  the  queer 
people  we  have  seen,  and  the  many  queer  tastes 
and  fancies  we  have  found  them  indulging  in, 
which  do  you  really  think  now  is  right  ?" 

"  Well,  lad,"  answered  Uncle  Ben, "  I  look  upon 
them  all,  as  I  told  you  long  ago,  as  a  lot  of  big 
boys  chasing  one  and  the  same  butterfly.  If  they 
were  so  many  puppets,  Ben,  with  a  wire  up  their 
back-bone,  and  pulled  by  some  invisible  hand, 
they  couldn't  be  made  to  play  up  greater  antics, 
or  be  more  assuredly  set  in  motion  by  one  and 
the  same  cause." 

"Yes,  uncle,  I  know,"  replied  the  impatient 
youngster ;  "  but  you  haven't  answered  my  ques 
tion.  Now,  which  of  all  the  many  different  pur 
suits  we  have  seen  is,  in  your  opinion,  the  most 
rational?" 

^ Hah!  my  little  man,"  returned  Uncle  Ben, 
with  a  philosophic  sigh,  "  there  are  so  many  dif 
ferent  roads  to  happiness  in  this  life,  that,  unless 
we  have  the  ground  we  are  to  travel  over  clearly 
mapped  out^before  our  eyes,  it  is  difficult  to  say 
off-hand  which  is  the  shortest  cut,  or  even  the 
cleanest  or  most  agreeable  way  to  it.  Unfortu 
nately,  too,  there  is  no  sign-post  set  up  at  the 
point  where  the  different  cross-roads  meet  to  di 
rect  us  along  the  right  path,  or  to  say,  '  THIS 
LEADS  TO  MISERY' — 'THIS  is  THE  ROAD  TO  RUIN' 

'  THIS   IS  THE  NEAREST  WAT  TO  SHAME' '  THIS 

is  THE  HIGHWAY  TO  FOLLY,'  and  so  on ;  so  that 
when  we  come  to  this  juncture  in  our  journey 
through  life,  and  stand  deliberating  as  to  which 
of  the  many  turnings  we  had  better  take,  why,  we 
may  be  led  by  an  infinity  of  circumstances  to  strike 
into  the  wrong  path,  and  find  out,  when  it  is  too 
late  to  retrace  our  steps,  that  what  we  fancied  at 
P 


226  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

starting  to  be  a  perfect  palace  in  the  distance,  sur 
rounded  by  the  most  extensive  pleasure-grounds, 
is  merely  the  poor-house,  or  the  county  jail,  or 
some  great  lunatic  asylum  after  all." 

"  But,  uncle,"  exclaimed  the  eager  lad,  determ 
ined  not  to  be  put  off,  "  you  must  have  some 
opinion  yourself  on  the  matter.  Which  of  all  the 
persons  we  saw  do  you  think,  now,  was  going  the 
right  road,  as  you  call  it  ?" 

"Which  do  I  think — was  going — the  right 
road,  lad  ?"  echoed  the  old  man,  with  the  most 
tantalizing  tediousness.  "  Is  that  what  you  want 
to  know,  Ben  ?" 

"  Yes,  uncle ;  which  do  you  say — which  ?"  the 
boy  inquired  again,  as  he  leaned  forward  in  his 
anxiety  to  catch  the  answer. 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  see — let  us  see,"  was  the 
sole  reply. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    RIGHT   ROAD. 

"  WELL,  uncle,"  said  little  Benjamin,  after  a 
slight  pause,  "  go  on ;  which  is  the  right  road,  as 
you  call  it  ?" 

"  Ay,  but  wait  a  while,  Ben,  wait  a  while,"  said 
the  other,  as  he  knit  his  brows,  and  nibbled  away 
at  his  thumb  nail  with  all  the  vigor  of  a  mouse  at 
a  cheese-paring,  muttering  to  himself  the  while, 
"There's  nothing  like  making  an  impression  while 
the  wax  is  warm."  Then  he  suddenly  looked  up, 
half  vacantly,  at  his  nephew,  and  inquired,  "What 
kind  of  a  night  is  it,  Ben  ?" 

"  Oh,  quite  fine  and  bright  starlight,  I  declare," 
answered  the  boy,  as  he  thrust  his  head  between 
the  curtains  of  the  little  back  window.  "  But, 


THE    BIGHT   KOAD.  227 

pray,  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  the  right  road, 
uncle?" 

"  Yes,  nothing  like  making  an  impression  while 
the  wax  is  warm,"  he  mumbled  again  to  him 
self;  and  then  asked  aloud,  "And  which  way's 
the  wind,  lad  ?" 

"  The  wind,  uncle !"  echoed  the  youngster,  more 
and  more  puzzled ;  "  why,  it's  as  near  as  possible 
due  south,"  he  called  out,  as  he  went  again  and 
peeped  between  the  window-curtains.  "  I  can 
see  by  the  smoke  yonder  coming  out  of  old  Mr. 
Brownwell's  chimney.  But  what  are  you  up  to, 
uncle,  eh  ?" 

"  Southerly,  is  it !"  was  the  reply ;  "  so  much 
the  better — so  much  the  better,  for  then  it's  sure 
to  be  warm.  Give  me  my  hat  and  spencer,  Ben 
jamin,"  he  said,  starting  suddenly  from  his  chair. 

"  Why,  you're  never  going  out  at  this  hour  ?" 
exclaimed  the  godson,  in  utter  bewilderment. 

"  There,  never  mind,  lad,  but  do  you  go  and  get 
your  top-coat,  and  come  along  with  me,"  the  god 
father  went  on.  "  There's  no  possibility  of  go 
ing  over 'the  matter  here,  with  that  shop-bell 
tinkling  away  every  minute,  and  the  people  dodg 
ing  continually  in  and  out,"  he  kept  mumbling 
half  to  himself,  as  he  stood  with  his  arms  stretch- 
'ed  out  behind  him,  waiting  mechanically  for  the 
boy  to  slip  the  sleeves  of  his  spencer  over  them. 
And  then,  as  he  turned  round  suddenly,  and  found 
his  nephew  had  never  stirred  from  the  spot,  but 
was  still  staring  at  him  in  wonder  as  to  whether 
he  could  really  be  serious  in  what  he  was  doing, 
he  cried  out,  "  Why,  you  young  rascal,  I'm  not 
going  to  carry  you  off  to  the  prairies  again,  never 
fear !  You're  a  bit  tired,  I  dare  say,  Ben,  but 
we're  not  going  far ;  so  look  alive,  or  we  shall 
have  your  father  putting  up  the  shutters  before 
we  start."' 


228  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

Some  half  hour  afterward  the  uncle  and  his 
nephew  were  seated  on  a  solitary  lump  of  rock 
that  jutted  just  above  the  sands  on  the  sea-shore, 
scarce  a  mile  beyond  the  town  of  Boston. 

The  night  was  almost  as  bright  as  day ;  and 
had  it  not  been  for  the  silvery  rays  of  the  full 
moon,  which  seemed  to  cover  the  earth  with  a 
Mheet  of  snow,  one  might  have  fancied,  from  the 
luminousness  and  transparency  of  the  air,  that  it 
was  the  cold  blue  twilight  of  an  early  summer's 
morning. 

The  sky  was  frosted  all  over  with  "  star-dust," 
and  sparkled  like  the  sea  at  night  in  the  tropics 
with  its  million  points  of  fire.  Down  the  centre 
of  the  firmament  streamed  the  broad  phosphores 
cent  band  of  the  "  Milky  Way,"  with  its  "  fire- 
mist"  of  stars,  looking  almost  as  fine  and  infinite 
to  the  naked  eye  as  the  minute  particles  that  go 
to  make  up  the  bloom  on  a  butterfly's  wing,  and 
seeming  as  though  the  curtains  of  the  heavens 
were  parted  there,  and  one  could  just  catch  the 
dazzle  of  the  countless  multitude  of  lights  about 
the  Godhead's  throne.  On  either  side  of  this,  the 
bright  figures  of  the  more  marked  constellations 
shone  out  in  lustrous  lines,  solemn  as  the  symbols 
traced  by  the  Unseen  Hand  in  strokes  of  fire  upon 
the  wall;  and  here  and  there,  some  larger  star 
or  stray  planet  arrested  the  eye,  as  it  was  seen 
nhining  alone  in  the  pale  violet  air — a  little  ball 
of  white  light,  bright  as  a  glow-worm  in  a  hedge 
row.  Not  a  cloud  was  to  be  seen;  the  moon, 
which  had  not  long  risen,  hung  a  little  above  the 
horizon,  like  a  big  pearl  upon  some  Indian  prince's 
neck,  and  poured  from  out  her  opal  urn  such  a 
flood  of  virgin  beams  that  the  white  lustre  came 
streaming  across  the  ocean  to  the  shore  in  a  nar 
row  rippling  rivulet  of  molten  silver,  flowing  as 
it  were  through  the  parted  waters  of  the  sea ; 


THE    BIGHT    ROAD.  229 

and  as  the  billows  fell  languidly  upon  the  beach, 
the  very  moonbeams  seemed  to  curl  over  there, 
and  then  spread  themselves  out  into  a  broad, 
shallow  sheet  of  splendor  far  along  the  sands. 

The  earth  itself  was  almost  as  lovely  as  the  sky 
and  sea.  Though  all  color  had  faded  from  the 
world,  and  Nature  looked  sombre  as  a  sister  of 
charity  in  her  sad -colored  garb  —  though  the 
woods  had  no  more  tint  in  them  than  black  clouds 
of  smoke  welling  up  out  of  the  ground — though 
the  roadways  were  white  as  snow-drifts  with  the 
moonlight,  and  the  fields  like  plates  of  steel,  with 
the  cottages  glistening  in  the  beams  as  if  they 
had  been  cut  out  of  marble,  still,  what  exquisite 
"  value"  did  the  neutral  tones  and  half  dusk  of 
the  night  give  to  the  little  specks  of  light  that 
were  seen  shining  here  and  there  in  the  distance, 
now  alone  from  out  the  windows  of  some  solitary 
homestead,  and  now  thick  as  a  swarm  of  fireflies 
from  amid  the  haze  of  some  far-off  village ! 

The  neighboring  town  of  Boston  itself,  with 
the  moonlight  drenching  its  endless  ridges  of 
roofs,  so  that  they  appeared  to  be  positively  wet 
with  the  beams,  and  the  dusky  forms  of  the  tall 
steeples  and  towers  melting,  spectral-like,  into  the 
cold  gray  background  of  the  sky,  was  indeed  a 
noble  sight  at  such  an  hour.  The  million  window- 
paries  were  like  so  many  squares  of  burnished 
gold  with  the  multitude  of  the  lights  in  the  houses, 
and  these  were  reflected  in  the  tide  that  washed 
the  peninsular  pedestal  of  the  city,  so  that  the 
water-  seemed  a-blaze  with  the  long  bright  streaks 
of  fire  mirrored  in  it ;  and  there  they  kept  flashing 
with  every  ripple  of  the  waves,  till  they  appeared, 
now  like  so  many  fiery  snakes  diving  deep  into 
the  ocean,  and  now  like  a  flight  of  rockets  shoot 
ing  downward  in  long  meteor-like  trails. 

There  was  hardly  a  sound  to  be  heard.     The 


'230  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

rippling  of  the  waves  upon  the  sands  was  as  gen 
tle  as  a  summer  breeze  rustling  through  a  forest. 

The  clatter  of  the  work-day  world  had  ceased ; 
the  hum  of  the  town  was  hushed ;  the  country 
silent  as  a  tomb.  The  only  noises  that  came 
fitfully  upon  the  ear  were  the  occasional  barking 
of  some  startled  farm-dog  far  away  in  the  coun 
try,  or  the  muffled  throb  and  splash  of  some  poor 
fisherman's  oars  at  work  in  the  offing,  or  else  the 
bells  of  the  many  church  clocks  of  the  town  toll 
ing  the  hour,  one  after  another,  in  a  hundred  dif 
ferent  tones. 

"  Now,  my  little  man,"  said  Uncle  Benjamin, 
after  he  had  sat  for  a  while  silently  contemplating 
the  grandeur  of  the  exquisite  scene  before  him, 
"  here  at  least  we  shall  be  secure  from  interrup 
tion  ;  and  here,  lapped  in  the  very  sublimity  of 
creation,  let  us  try  and  find  out  which  is  the  right 
road  to  worldly  happiness." 

The  little  fellow  curled  his  arm  about  the  old 
man's  neck,  and  looked  into  his  face,  as  much  as 
to  say  he  was  ready  and  anxious  for  the  lesson. 

"  Well,  then,  Ben,  of  course  you  have  never 
asked  yourself  how  many  different  kinds  of  pleas 
ure  there  are  of  which  human  nature  is  suscepti 
ble,"  began  the  tutor. 

"  No,  that  I  haven't,  I'm  sure,"  was  the  frank 
reply ;  "  but,  bless  me,  uncle,  I  should  say,  from 
the  specimens  we  have  seen,  that  there  are  as 
many  different  pleasures  as  there  are  men  in  the 
world,  for  each  person  we  visited  seemed  to  find 
enjoyment  in  almost  the  very  opposite  pursuit  to 
that  of  his  neighbor." 

"  Ay,  my  son ;  but  those  you  saw,"  said  Uncle 
Benjamin,  "  were  each  a  type  of  a  large  class  in 
life.  I  showed  you,  purposely,  but  one  member 
of  each  different  order  of  characters  among  man 
kind.  But  had  we,  instead  of  picking  our  way 


UNCLE   BEN    POINTS   OUT   THE   EIGHT   KOAU  TO    WORLDLY   HAPPINESS. 


THE   BIGHT   ROAD.  233 

through  the  town,  gone  regularly  on  from  house 
to  house,  you  would  have  found  that  there  are 
many  misers  in  society  like  the  one  we  saw,  and 
a  whole  multitude  of  drunkards  differing  but  little 
from  the  individual  drunkard  we  visited,  as  well 
as  a  host  of  poets,  and  a  large  family  of  gluttons, 
philosophers,  and  fops,  besides  innumerable  sports 
men,  musicians,  amateur  mechanics,  artists,  and 
antiquaries,  and  that  they  have  all,  more  or  less, 
the  same  peculiarities  and  propensities  as  the 
types  I  introduced  you  to ;  so  that,  though  geog 
raphers  divide  the  several  branches  of  the  great 
human  family  into  nations,  according  to  the  mere 
patch  of  earth  they  are  located  upon,  there  is, 
nevertheless,  more  difference  of  nature  often  to  be 
found  between  African  and  African,  or  Spaniard 
and  Spaniard,  or  even  between  Yorkshirernan  and 
Yorkshireman,  than  between  miser  and  miser,  or 
drunkard  and  drunkard." 

"  How  strange  it  would  be,  then,  uncle,"  re 
marked  the  boy,  smiling  at  his  own  idea,  "  if  all 
the  misers  were  made  to  live  together,  and  parted 
off  into  a  separate  nation,  as  well  as  all  the  drunk 
ards,  and  poets,  and  philosophers,  and  sportsmen, 
and  others  too.  Then  we  should  have  the  king 
dom  of  Misers  and  the  empire  of  Drunkards, 
I  suppose,  or  Hunksland  and  Sotland,  as  they 
would  be  called  perhaps — as  England  and  Scot 
land  were,  you  know,  after  the  Angles  and  the 
Scots ;"  and  the  boy  laughed  outright  at  the  no 
tion  as  he  said,  "  Wouldn't  it  be  droll,  eh  ?  and 
I'm  sure  it  would  be  a  much  better  arrangement 
than  now,  for  then  all  of  the  same  tastes  and  dis 
positions  would  be  gathered  together,  like  one 
family  in  the  world." 

"  But  you'll  find  out,  my  lad,"  rejoined  the  un 
cle,  "before  you  have  lived  many  years  longer, 
that  'birds  of  a  feather  do  flock  together J  as  the 


234  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

saying  goes ;  your  drunkards  hob-a-nob  with  their 
brother  drunkards  in  the  tap-room ;  gluttons  fra 
ternize  with  gluttons  at  public  dinners  and  feasts  ; 
fops  with  fops  at  evening  parties  and  balls ;  schol 
ars  with  scholars  in  colleges  and  learned  societies ; 
sportsmen  with  sportsmen  in  the  field  and  at  bet 
ting-places  ;  and  philosophers  with  philosophers 
in  scientific  academies  and  institutes.  The  world 
is  broken  up  into  sects  as  much  by  the  '  non-con 
forming'  of  tastes  as  of  religion,  Ben,  and  each 
difference  of  creed  is  the  same  heresy  to  those 
who  have  a  pet  faith  of  their  own.  But  we  must 
keep  to  our  point,  lad,"  he  added.  "  I  asked  you 
how  many  different  kinds  of  pleasure  human  na 
ture  is  susceptible  of  and  mind,  I  say  'kinds,' 
not  species,  but  classes,  which  include  a  large 
number  of  different  varieties  of  pleasure  within 
them." 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  say,"  the  little  fellow  replied, 
with  a  shake  of  the  head ;  "  I  can  hardly  under 
stand  the  words  you  use,  uncle." 

"  Well,  then,  let  me  explain,"  continued  the  oth 
er.  "Every  state  into  which  our  mind  can  be 
thrown  must  be  either  a  sensation,  a  thought,  or 
an  emotion ;  hence  it  follows  that  any  pleasura 
ble  state  of  mind  must  be  either  a  pleasure  of  the 
senses,  a  pleasure  of  the  intellect,  or  a  pleasure  of 
the  heart,  so  to  speak,  supposing  the  heart  to  be 
the  organ  of  the  emotions." 

"  Oh !  I  think  I  see  what  you  mean  now,  un 
cle,"  returned  the  youth,  with  considerable  quick 
ness,  jumping  as  he  did  at  once  at  his  uncle's 
idea.  "  You  would  say,  I  suppose,  that  all  pleas 
ures  must  belong  to  one  of  those  three  kinds  of 
pleasure ;  they  must  be  either  sensual  pleasures, 
or  intellectual  pleasures — or — or  —  what's  the 
name  for  the  other  ?" 

"  Moral  pleasures,"  said  the  old  man,  "  though 


THE    RIGHT   ROAD.  235 

it  is  but  a  sorry  title  at  best ;  still,  as  it  is  the 
term  usually  applied,  we  will  not  stop  to  split 
hairs,  or  quibble,  like  lawyers,  about  words." 

"  So,  then,  all  the  different  pleasures  that  we 
found  the  persons  pursuing  in  our  journey  through 
the  town,"  the  lad  went  on  saying,  half  to  him 
self,  delighted  now  that  he  had  got  hold  of  some 
thing  like  a  clew  to  the  mystery,  "  were  either 
sensual,  intellectual,  or — or  moral  ones.  Let  me 
see !  let  me  see !"  he  continued,  musing, "  wheth 
er  I  can  make  it  out  by  myself.  The  drunkard's 
was  a — a — sensual  pleasure,  of  course,  and  so  was 
the  epicure's ;  and  the  poet's  was  an  intellectual 
one.  Yes,  of  course  it  w^as,  and  so  was  the  phi 
losopher's  too ;  and  the  miser's  was — was — what 
would  you  call  the  pleasure  the  miser  found  in  his 
money,  eh,  uncle?  It  can't  be  intellectual;  I 
should  think  it's  sensual,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  No,  lad ;  the  love  of  money  belongs  to  the 
class  of  moral  pleasures,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Why,  there's  nothing  moral  about  that,  I'm 
sure,"  returned  the  pupil,  with  more  frankness 
than  deference  to  his  teacher. 

"There  is  no  more  true  morality  in  money- 
grubbing,  Ben,"  added  the  old  man,  "  than  there 
is  profound  intellect  in  collecting  bits  of  old  pave 
ment  and  old  tiles ;  and  yet  it  is  avarice  that 
makes  the  one  pleasure  congenial  to  the  miser, 
even  as  knowledge  gives  a  zest  to  the  other  with 
the  antiquary." 

"  But  avarice  is  greediness  after  money,  isn't  it, 
uncle?  and  if  the  greediness  of  the  epicure  is  sen 
sual,  why  shouldn't  the  miser's  gluttony  for  the 
guineas  be  called  the  same?"  argued  the  boy, 
who  was  not  at  all  pleased  to  hear  the  passion  of 
the  old  hunks  dignified  into  a  moral  pursuit. 

"Why,  my  lad,"  answered  Uncle  Benjamin, 
"  simply  because  it  is  not  the  senses  that  enjoy 


236  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

the  money,  as  the  palate  does  the  food  or  drink, 
but  the  sordid  heart  that  finds  delight  in  it. 
Granted  the  greed  of  the  one  is  no  more  enlight 
ened  or  refined  than  that  of  the  other — for  there 
are  degrading  moral  pleasures  as  well  as  degrad 
ing  sensual  ones,  Ben ;  but  the  delights  of  human 
nature  are  simply  sensual,  intellectual,  or  moral,  I 
say  again,  according  as  they  are  enjoyed  either 
by  the  senses,  the  mind,  or  the  heart  of  man." 

"  Oh,  I  understand  now,"  responded  the  pupil. 
"  But,  uncle,"  he  cried,  the  moment  afterward, 
"  what's  the  use  of  these  grand  names  and  nice 
distinctions?  they  don't  seem  to  me  to  give  a 
chap  any  real  knowledge  of  the  nature  of  the 
pleasures  themselves,  after  all." 

"  Well  said,  my  son,  well  said !"  the  old  man 
replied,  as  he  pressed  the  pet  boy  to  his  bosom. 
"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  are  not  to  be  put  off  with 
mere  big  words,  Ben.  But  it  so  happens  in  this 
case  that  the  grand  terms  are  not  simply  hard 
names  invented  to  confound  the  vulgar,  but  they 
mark  distinctions  which  enable  us  to  study  a  num 
ber  of  different  things  at  once — to  group  together 
a  large  variety  of  human  pleasures,  and  thus  find 
out  what  is  common  to  all  of  that  same  kind,  in 
stead  of  our  having  to  criticise  each  isolated  pleas 
ure  successively ;  so  that  when  we  have  once  par 
celed  out  all  the  delights  of  mankind  into  the  de 
lights  either  of  the  senses,  intellect,  or  heart,  we 
can  ascertain  the  peculiar  attributes  of  each  dis 
tinct  class  of  delight  merely  by  attending  to  the 
peculiar  characteristics  of  sensation,  thought,  and 
emotion  in  all  mankind." 

"Ah !  I  see,"  exclaimed  the  boy,  thoughtfully ; 
"but  isn't  it  very  difficult  to  find  out  what  are 
these  peculiar  characteristics,  as  you  call  them  ?" 

"  The  knowledge  can  be  gained  only  by  pro 
found  reflection  and  long  attention  to  the  mat- 


THE   EIGHT   ROAD.  237 

ter,"  was  the  answer.  "  However,  let  us  begin  at 
once  with  the  sensual  pleasures,  and  see  what 
worldly  wisdom  we  can  gather  from  even  a  cur 
sory  review  of  them,  my  little  man." 

The  boy  again  placed  himself  in  a  convenient  po 
sition  for  listening  as  he  said,  "Yes,  uncle,  go  on." 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  SENSES. 

"  In  the  first  place,  then,"  commenced  the  god 
father,  "  I  should  tell  you  that  a  sensation,  accord 
ing  to  the  strict  meaning  of  the  term,  always  re 
quires  an  external  cause  to  give  rise  to  it,  where 
as  a  thought  has  always  an  internal  origin,  being 
excited  in  the  mind,  in  every  case,  by  some  pre 
ceding  mental  state.  For  instance,  this  rock  pro 
duces  in  me  a  sensation  of  roughness  as  I  draw 
my  hand  along  it,  and  this  makes  me  think  of  the 
texture  of  other  rocks,  and  then,  inwardly  com 
paring  the  one  with  my  remembrance  of  the  oth 
er  impressions,  I  judge  what  quality  of  stone  it  is 
by  the  mere  touch.  The  external  body  thus  ex 
cites  the  sensation  in  my  mind,  and  this  inward 
sensation  produces  the  thought  of  other  bodies 
like  it,  and  that  thought  again  induces  the  com 
parison  and  ultimate  judgment.  The  first  im 
pression  had  an  outward  origin ;  the  ideas  which 
followed  it  were  all  excited  within  me,  the  one 
mental  state  giving  rise  to  the  other." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  attentive  listener.  "A 
sensation" — and  he  went  over  the  distinction  so 
as  to  impress  it  the  better  on  his  memory — 
*'  comes  from  something  outside  of  us ;  a  thought 
is  excited  by  something  within." 

"Well,  then,  my  boy,"  continued  the  other, 
"  this  being  understood,  of  course  it  follows  that 
we  can  have  as  many  different  sensations  as  we 
have  different  means  of  communicating  with  the 
outward  world,  or  as  there  are,  so  to  speak,  dif- 


238  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

ferent  doors  and  inlets  to  our  mind.  Now,  how 
many  different  organs  of  sensation  have  we,  lad  ? 
You  know  that,  Ben,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  uncle,  we  have  five  senses,  I  know," 
replied  the  youth.  " Let  me  see,  what  are  they? 
Seeing"  (and  he  told  them  off,  one  after  the  other, 
on  his  fingers  as  he  spoke),  "hearing,  tasting, 
smelling,  and  feeling;  yes,  that's  the  five,  all  told." 

"  True,  my  man,"  added  the  uncle ;  "  but  a  per 
son  may  have  many  other  sensations  than  such  as 
come  in  through  the  organs  of  sight,  sound,  smell, 
taste,  and  touch.  These  are  the  five  principal 
gates  to  the  brain,  certainly,  but  beyond  them 
there  is  the  general  sense  of  heat  and  cold,  as 
well  as  the  several  appetites  of  the  body,  all  of 
which  have  an  external  origin  as  much  as  any 
other  sensations  of  which  we  are  susceptible.  The 
gastric  juice,  for  example,  from  the  action  of 
which  on  the  stomach  the  feeling  of  hunger  is 
said  to  proceed,  is  as  much  external  to  the  mind 
as  the  soft,  warm  breeze  which  I  feel  now  as  it 
sweeps  past  my  cheek." 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  boy,  as  the  old  man  paused 
for  a  minute  to  see  whether  the  little  fellow  could 
follow  him. 

"  And  besides  these,  Ben,"  the  godfather  pro 
ceeded,  "  there  is  that  indefinite  sensation  which 
comes  from  the  natural  and  genial  action  of  every 
function  throughout  the  human  frame  when  in  a 
state  of  absolute  health,  or  the  sense  of  convales 
cence,  as  it  is  termed,  and  which  has  no  particu 
lar  organ  to  develop  it,  but  arises  from  the  fit 
operation  of  all  the  different  parts  of  the  system 
at  once.  Then  again,  lad,  there  is  the  sense  we 
have  of  physical  exercise,  or  that  peculiar  feeling 
which  arises  in  the  mind  on  the  contraction  of 
our  muscles  and  play  of  our  limbs,  as  well  as  the 
sense  of  effort  that  we  experience  when  we  en- 


THE    EIGHT    ROAD.  239 

deavor  to  exert  our  power  in  any  great  degree. 
And  farther,  there  is  the  sense  of  ease  or  satisfac 
tion  that  we  feel  either  after  resting  from  fatigue, 
or  on  the  allaying  of  any  appetite,  or  the  relief 
of  any  bodily  pain.  Lastly,  there  is  the  sense  of 
stimulus  or  inordinate  excitement,  such  as  we  ex 
perience  when  the  particular  functions  of  our 
body  are  performed  with  unusual  vigor,  as  upon 
the  quickening  of  the  circulation,  or  upon  being 
thrown  into  that  peculiar  vivid  state  called  mental 
emotion,  and  which  seems  to  aifect  the  body  al 
most  as  much  as  the  mind.  The  same  sense  of 
stimulus  also  manifests  itself  in  that  peculiar  im 
pression  of  increased  liveliness  of  system  which 
is  usually  called  'animal  spirits.'  And  here,  so 
far  as  I  know,  Ben,"  concluded  Uncle  Benjamin, 
"  ends  the  catalogue  of  the  distinct  sensations  of 
which  mankind  is  susceptible." 

"Very  good!  very  good!"  cried  the  little  fel 
low  ;  "  and  now  let  me  see  whether  I  can  remem 
ber  them  all.  First  come  the  five  principal  sen 
sations  of  seeing,  hearing,  smelling,  tasting,  and 
feeling;  and  then — let  me  see,  how  did  you  go 
on  ?  Oh  yes  !  then  there  is  the  sensation  of  heat 
and  cold,  and  of  the  bodily  appetites ;  and  after 
that  you  mentioned  the  sensation  with  the  long 
name,  you  know — the  sensation  of — of  perfect 
con — con — convalescence — yes,  that's  it;  and — 
and — what's  after  that  ? — don't  you  tell  me,  uncle. 
Oh,  ay !  I've  got  it — of  exercise  and  of  effort ;  and 
then  there  is  the  sensation  of  ease  or  satisfaction ; 
and,  lastly,  that  of  stimulus  or — or — whatever  was 
it  you  called  it  ? — some  hard  word  or  another,  I 
know  it  was." 

"  Or  inordinate  excitement,"  prompted  the 
teacher. 

"  Oh  yes ;  inordinate  excitement,  so  it  was," 
cried  the  boy  (clapping  his  hands  as  the  remem- 


240  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

brance  of  the  words  started  back  into  his  brain). 
"Do  you  think  I  went  over  those  pretty  well, 
uncle  ?" 

"  Excellently,  my  little  man ;  and  I  am  the  more 
pleased,  because  the  ease  with  which  you  recalled 
my  words  shows  the  intentness  with  which  you 
must  have  listened  to  them,"  returned  Uncle  Ben 
jamin,  as  he  again  fondled  the  little  fellow,  and 
told  him,  more  by  caresses  than  flattery,  how  de 
lighted  he  was  with  his  long  patience. 

OF    SENSUOUS   PLEASURE   ITSELF. 

"  Well,  Master  Ben,"  the  old  man  resumed,  "as 
we  know  the  different  sensations  of  which  human 
nature  is  susceptible,  we  are  now  in  a  position  to 
begin  studying  the  pleasures  connected  with 
them ;  for  each  organ  of  sense,  I  should  tell  you, 
boy,  is  not  only  capable  of  giving  us  some  pecul 
iar  perception  like  those  of  light,  heat,  sound, 
odor,  flavor,  and  substance,  but  it  is  also  endow 
ed  with  a  fundamental  capacity  for  conveying 
pain  and  pleasure,  delight  and  disgust,  in  connec 
tion  with  such  perceptions ;  and  thus  the  light 
and  heat,  etc.,  which  we  perceive  may  be  either 
painful  or  pleasant,  agreeable  or  disagreeable  to 
our  feelings.  Now  it  is  with  these  additional  or 
superimposed  qualities  that  we  have  to  deal,  lad, 
rather  than  with  the  mere  abstract  perceptions  or 
impressions  themselves." 

"  I  see,"  murmur'ed  little  Ben. 

"  But  first  let  me  point  out  to  you,  my  son," 
the  old  man  went  on,  "  the  bounty  and  the  grace 
of  this  addition  or  extra  endowment  to  our  senses. 
The  simple  perception  of  light  and  color  only,  for 
instance,  or  even  of  sound  alone,  would,  it  is  ob 
vious,  have  been  quite  sufficient  for  all  the  pur 
poses  of  mere  sight  and  hearing ;  but  the  adding 
of  the  aesthetic  qualities,  as  they  are  called,  the 


THE    BIGHT   KOAD.  241 

making  of  light  and  color  beautiful,  and  sound 
melodious  to  us,  is  surely  an  act  of  high  and  spe 
cial  benevolence — a  touch  of  gratuitous  and  lavish 
kindness,  which,  as  it  adds  nothing  to  the  utilities 
of  life,  but  is  a  source  of  some  of  the  purest  and 
most  generous  of  all  earthly  happiness,  is  a  signal 
evidence  of  the  goodness  of  God  to  us.  Again, 
even  the  institution  of  pain  itself,  which  has  so 
puzzled  the  controversialists  as  to  '  the  origin  of 
evil,'  is,  when  physiologically  considered,  merely 
another  motive  to  action  in  man.  You  know  I 
told  you  before,  Ben,  nothing  can  move  without  a 
cause,  and  that  there  is  a  reason  for  every  one  of 
the  actions  among  human  beings  and  the  lower 
animals  which  are  continually  going  on  in  the 
world.  With  mankind,  as  you  have  seen,  the 
chief  stimulus  to  action  is  the  pursuit  of  pleasure; 
it  is  the  sense  of  delight  to  come  that  generally 
leads  men  to  act  in  this  way  or  that.  But  while 
the  love  of  pleasure  draws  us  almost  insensibly 
along  by  the  silken  cord  of  our  innate  desires  to 
ward  that  which  is  agreeable  to  us,  our  inherent 
aversion  from  pain  makes  us  instinctively  shun 
that  which  is  noxious  to  us.  Like  the  two  poles 
of  a  magnet,  the  one  attracts  and  the  other  re 
pels,  but  both  act  toward  the  same  end :  the  re 
pellent  force  not  only  drives  the  body  away,  but 
it  turns  it  at  the  same  time  toward  the  attractive 
one.  And  as  the  opposite  poles  of  the  magnet, 
when  it  is  bent  into  the  form  of  a  horseshoe,  so 
that  they  may  both  operate  simultaneously,  act 
and  react  on  each  other,  and  have  thus  more  than 
double  the  power  of  either  force  singly,  so,  lad, 
with  pain  and  pleasure ;  they  are  but  two  causes 
instead  of  one  to  produce  the  same  effect — a  dou 
ble  motive  power  to  induce  us  to  seek  the  good 
and  avoid  the  evils  of  life.  Then  surely  if  it  were 
benevolence  to  make  us  delight  in  goodness,  as 

Q 


242  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

the  means  of  drawing  us  by  the  insensible  attrac 
tion  of  our  own  instincts  toward  that  which  is  fit 
and  proper  for  us,  so  was  it  even  still  greater 
benevolence  to  give  us  a  natural  loathing  for  wrhat 
is  hurtful  to  us,  and  thus  to  create  in  us  an  invol 
untary  aversion  from  the  several  ills  the  flesh  is 
heir  to.  Viewed  in  this  light,  lad,  evil  is  the  very 
counterpart  of  goodness  itself,  and  pain  the  twin- 
sister  to  pleasure." 

"  So  it  is,"  exclaimed  the  little  fellow  ;  "  though 
I  must  say  it  does  seem  at  first  sight  like  as  if 
pain,  misery,  and  want  had  been  created  by  an 
evil  spirit  rather  than  a  good  one — doesn't  it, 
uncle?" 

THE   PLEASURES    OF   THE   FIVE   PRINCIPAL    SENSES. 

"And  now,  Ben,  primed  with  this  knowledge 
as  to  the  fundamental  use  of  pain  and  pleasure  in 
the  world,  we  will  proceed  forthwith  to  the  con 
sideration  of  the  pleasures  of  the  senses,"  the  god 
father  went  on.  "  Well,  then,  my  boy,  as  each 
sense  has  been  made  susceptible  of  a  certain  form 
of  pleasure  and  delight,  it  follows,  of  course,  that 
there  must  be  as  many  different  forms  of  sensual 
pleasures  as  there  are  distinct  sensations  in  man 
kind." 

"Ah !  I  begin  to  see  now  why  you  wanted  to 
make  me  acquainted  with  the  different  sensations 
themselves  first,"  ejaculated  little  Ben. 

"  There  are,  of  course,"  added  Uncle  Benjamin, 
"  the  pleasures  of  the  five  principal  senses  to  be 
gin  with.  Above  all,  there  are  the  pleasures  of 
the  eye ;  and  these  mostly  consist  in  the  natural 
charms  of  lustre  and  splendor,  bright  colors  and 
graceful  forms,  and  hence  the  delight  of  all  na 
tions  in  pomp,  show,  and  dazzle,  as  well  as  gaudi- 
ness  and  gewgaws.  Hence  comes  the  love  of  the 
precious  metals,  as  being  the  more  pleasing  to  the 


THE   EIGHT   ROAD.  243 

sight ;  and  the  love  of  those  pretty  crystals  call 
ed  jewels,  as  being  the  brightest  hued  and  most 
brilliant  little  lumps  of  matter  in  the  world  about 
us ;  hence,  too,  the  love  of  fine  robes,  grand  halls, 
gilt  carriages,  and  gay  liveries  among  the  rich,  as 
well  as  among  monarchs  and  lord-mayors,  and  of 
tinsel  and  frippery  even  among  chimney-sweeps ; 
ay,  and  of  bright  beads  and  peacocks'  feathers 
among  barbarous  nations  and  savages.  Nor  is 
this  all :  the  natural  delight  that  even  the  most 
educated  and  refined  feel  in  the  contemplation  of 
nature  when  decked  in  all  the  glory  of  summer 
vegetation ;  in  beholding  the  golden  corn — the 
purple  clover — the  green  meadows — the  jeweled 
orchards — the  bright  blue  sky — the  snow-white 
clouds — the  crystal  waters — the  sparkling  fount 
ains — the  many-colored  flowers,  and  the  rich  lus 
tre  of  the  sunlight,  as  well  as  the  blanched  splen 
dor  of  the  moonlight,  and  fiery  fretwork  of  the 
stars — all  is  due  principally  to  that  wondrous 
palate  of  the  eye,  which  makes  such  perceptions 
more  or  less  pleasurable  to  the  sense  of  vision  in 
all  mankind." 

"  Go  on,  uncle,  I  like  to  hear  this,"  exclaimed 
the  boy,  delighted  with  the  crowd  of  pleasant  as 
sociations  now  called  up  in  his  mind. 

"  Then,  lad,"  he  continued,  "  there  are  the  pleas 
ures  of  the  ear,  such  as  the  warbling  of  the  birds 
—the  sweet  plaint  of  the  cuckoo — the  rich  notes 
of  the  nightingale,  and  the  dulcet  rapture  of  the 
lark ;  the  sound  of  woman's  gentle  and  kindly 
voice — the  laughter  of  infants — the  murmur  of 
the  brooks — the  hum  of  busy  insect  life — the  buzz 
of  the  waterfall — the  drone  of  the  far-off  sea — the 
chiming  of  the  church  bells — the  '  soughing'  of 
the  wind,  and  even  the  negative  delight  which  the 
same  sense  finds  in  the  stillness  of  evening,  the 
quietude  of  the  Sabbath,  and  the  solemn  silence 
of  the  forest." 


244  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FBANKLIN. 

The  boy  nodded  as  much  as  to  say  "  Proceed." 
"Next  we  have  the  pleasures  of  the  palate, 
Ben,"  said  the  uncle,  "  and  these  are  made  up  of 
the  sweets  and  fruits  of  the  earth,  and  the  choice 
flavor  of  spices  and  '  sweet  herbs,'  as  well  as  the 
peculiar  and  grateful  sapid  qualities  of  the  differ 
ent  kinds  of  meat,  roots,  and  grain  that  constitute 
our  food.  Besides  these,  too,  there  is  the  deli 
cious  freshness  of  a  draught  of  cool  and  sparkling 
spring  water — the  softness  of  milk — the  richness 
of  wine,  and  the  pungency  of  spirits.  Nor  should 
we  here  forget  the  strange  perverted  taste  for  to 
bacco,  which,  from  being  loathsome  even  to  nausea 
at  first,  becomes,  if  long  persisted  in,  not  only 
pleasant,  but  generates  an  absolute  craving,  as 
hunger  does  in  the  system. 

"Farther,"  he  added,  after  a  slight  pause, 
"  there  are  the  pleasures  of  the  sense  of  smell, 
and  these  are  not  less  manifold  than  the  others. 
To  this  sense  man  owes  a  great  part  of  his  de 
light  in  flowers  and  fruits,  and  also  his  taste  for 
the  cloying  luxury  of  artificial  perfumes — the  fine 
aroma  of  spices — the  rich  fragrance  of  incense ; 
while  among  the  daintier  charms  of  the  same  or 
gan  may  be  included  the  delicate  natural  odor 
of  early  morning — of  the  new-turned  earth — of 
new-mown  hay — of  burning  weeds — of  the  nutty 
smell  of  the  woods,  and  the  fresh  redolence  of 
the  sea ;  moreover,  even  the  negative  delights  of 

Eure  air  and  cleanliness  spring  partly  from  the 
ke  faculty. 

"  Again,  my  boy,  there  are  the  charms  peculiar 
to  the  sense  of  touch  or  feeling — that  sense  which 
is  confined  not  alone  to  the  finger-ends,  but  dif 
fused  over  the  whole  skin.  Among  these  may 
be  ranked  the  delight  we  find  in  softness  and 
smoothness,  as  well  as  in  elasticity  or  yielding- 
ness.  It  is  this  sense  which  makes  man  feel  pleas- 


THE    EIGHT    EOAD.  245 

lire  in  fine  linen  and  velvety  textures — in  easy 
chairs,  soft  couches,  and  beds  of  down ;  and  it  is 
the  peculiar  fresh  and  glibsome  feel  of  the  skin  in 
a  state  of  perfect  cleanliness  that  constitutes  one 
of  the  main  inducements  to  personal  ablution. 
Farther,  it  is  doubtlessly  in  the  delight  that  the 
hand  experiences  in  the  palpabilities  of  finely 
rounded  and  gently  swelling  forms  that  lies  the 
very  foundation  of  our  notions  of  beauty  in  lines 
and  figures." 

"Now  that's  all  the  five  senses,  uncle,"  re 
marked  the  boy,  as  his  godfather  came  to  a  pause. 
"  But  then,  you  know,  there's  the  sense  of  heat 
and  cold,  and  the  sensations  of  the  different  ap 
petites,  and  the  sense  of  perfect  what  d'ye  call  it 
— perfect  con — con — Liiiever  can  remember  that 
name ;"  and,  but  for  this  little  hitch  in  his  mem 
ory,  the  lad  would  assuredly  have  run  through 
the  whole  catalogue  once  more. 

"  Ay,"  boy ;  but  one  thing  at  a  time,  Ben,"  cried 
out  the  uncle,  who  was  getting  anxious  to  bring 
this  part  of  the  lesson  to  a  close.  "  The  pleasures 
derivable  from  the  sense  of  heat  and  cold  are 
chiefly  such  as  are  afforded  by  warm  clothing  in 
winter,  and  cool,  light  garments  in  summer.  It 
is  this  sense  that  makes  a  fine  warm  spring  day 
so  intensely  delightful  to  us  all ;  this  which  ren 
ders  the  sea-side,  with  its  fresh,  invigorating 
breezes,  so  pleasant  in  summer,  as  well  as  the 
cool  shady  lanes  of  the  country,  and  the  exquisite 
umbrage  and  subdued  light  of  the  forest,  so  agree 
able  to  every  one  at  the  same  season.  In  the 
winter,  on  the  other  hand,  the  same  sense  makes 
us  find  pleasure  in  the  shelter  of  our  house  and 
the  cosiness  of  our  own  fireside ;  and  when  the 
keen  and  stinging  east  wind  is  heard  whistling 
without,  or  when  the  earth  is  white  as  an  infant's 
pall  with  its  sheet  of  snow,  and  we  think  of  the 


246  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

wretched  shoeless  wanderers  with  nothing  but 
their  rent  rags  of  clothes  to  cover  them,  and  no 
roof  to  shelter  their  heads,  why  then,  like  the 
hypocrites  of  old,  lad,  we  thank  God  we  '  are  not 
as  one  of  these ;'  and  then  our  natural  love  of 
warmth  makes  us  find  a  special  blessing  in  the 
comforts  of  our  own  home,  and  the  bright  substi 
tute  for  the  sunshine  that  is  glowing  in  the  centre 
of  our  own  hearth." 

THE   PLEASURES    OF    HEALTH. 

"  And  now  for  the  pleasures  of  the  bodily  ap 
petites  !"  exclaimed  little  Ben,  as  soon  as  his  god 
father  had  finished  with  the  other. 

"Nay,  child,  all  in  good  time,"  was  the  an 
swer  ;  "  they  must  stand  &ver  for  a  while,  till  we 
come  to  the  pleasures  we  experience  from  a  sense 
of  ease  or  satisfaction.  The  next  subject  is  the 
pleasures  of  health,  or  those  which  arise  from  our 
sense  of  perfect  convalescence." 

"  Ah !  that's  the  word  I  wanted,"  shouted  Ben, 
intensely  pleased  to  get  hold  of  it  once  more. 
"  Perfect  convalescence — perfect  convalescence ; 
I  won't  forget  it  in  a  hurry  again,  I  warrant." 

"Well,  lad,"  said  Uncle  Benjamin,- "  the  pleas 
ures  of  health  are  of  so  indefinite  and  subdued  a 
character,  that  it  is  only  when  they  are  brought 
out  by  the  contrast  of  a  long  illness  that  we  are 
fully  sensible  of  the  great  natural  delight  there  is 
in  a  state  of  convalescence.  Then,  as  the  blood 
begins  to  tingle  again  softly  in  the  veins,  and  to 
set  every  nerve  sparkling,  as  it  were,  with  the  re 
turning  circulation,  while  the  whole  skin  becomes 
alive  with  the  faint  tickling  of  its  revived  action 
— then,  as  the  warm  sunshine  is  felt  to  sink  into 
the  frame  like  a  honeyed  balm,  and  to  pervade 
the  body  as  if  it  were  in  an  absolute  bath  of  light, 
and  the  fresh  breeze  seems  positively  to  play  and 


THE   RIGHT   ROAD.  247 

fondle  with  the  cheeks,  softly  as  a  woman  s  hand, 
as  it  sweeps  past  them,  and  to  breathe  the  very 
breath  of  life  into  the  frame  with  the  refreshing 
fanning  of  every  gust — then,  and  then  only,  are 
we  thoroughly  conscious  of  the  fine  sensuous  de 
light  that  health  affords  us.  It  is  the  same  prin 
ciple  of  contrast,  again,  which  gives  the  sense  of 
health  such  charms  in  the  memories  of  the  old — 
ay,  and  even  in  their  imaginations,  too — when 
they  behold  the  stout  limbs,  the  plump  and  rosy 
cheeks,  the  pinky  and  smooth  skin  of  hearty  chil 
dren,  and  see  the  little  things  run  and  frisk  with 
all  the  sportiveness  and  springiness  of  lambs,  and 
hear  them  laugh  with  the  fine  wild  joy  of  utter 
carelessness,  full  of  life  even  to  overflowing,  and 
gushing  with  spirits,  and  with  every  fibre  of  their 
frame  glowing  and  quickened  with  the  delightful 
enlivenment  of  thorough  bodily  sanity.  Ah ! 
then  what  would  not  the  aged  and  decrepit  give 
for  one  hour's  enjoyment  of  this  same  sense  of 
perfect  health  again !" 

THE  PLEASURES    OF   EXERCISE. 

"  Now  are  you  going  to  do  the  pleasures  of  the 
appetites,  uncle  ?"  inquired  the  boy,  who  seemed 
to  be  still  anxious  that  his  teacher  should  keep 
to  the  order  which  he  himself  had  laid  down. 

"  No,  lad,"  the  other  made  answer ;  "  the  next 
sensual  pleasure  I  shall  touch  upon  is  the  natural 
delight  of  physical  exercise,  though  in  the  slight 
glance  I  have  just  given  at  the  enjoyment  chil 
dren  find  in  their  sports  and  gambols  I  have  some 
what  forestalled  the  subject.  The  delight  of  ex 
ercise  (apart  from  the  charms  of  external  nature, 
and  that  enjoyment  of  change  of  air,  which  al 
ways  serve  to  increase,  more  or  less,  the  pleasure 
we  find  in  walking  or  riding) — the  delight  of  ex 
ercise,  I  say,  seems  to  arise  principally  from  the 


248  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FKANKLIN. 

'working  off'  of  that  muscular  irritability  which 
is  called  '  fidgetiness'  when  it  becomes  excessive 
in  the  system.  The  blood,  as  it  travels  through 
the  body,  tends  to  irritate  every  fibre  of  the  flesh 
and  nerves,  and  this  irritation  gives  the  muscles  a 
natural  tendency  to  contract,  in  the  same  manner 
as  if  they  were  excited  with  the  mere  point  of  a 
pin,  and  hence  the  allaying  of  the  uneasiness  oc 
casioned  by  the  muscular  irritability  becomes  a 
source  of  no  slight  pleasure  to  mankind.  Again, 
in  the  act  of  exercise  the  whole  system  becomes 
quickened,  and  every  function  stimulated,  while 
the  health  is  improved  as  well  as  the  spirits  en 
livened;  so  that  even  were  there  no  special  de 
light  of  its  own  connected  with  the  sense  of  exer 
cise,  the  mere  pleasures  of  increased  health  and 
excitement  would  be  sufficient  to  make  it  agree 
able  to  us.  But  the  delight  that  youths  find  in 
what  are  called  athletic  sports  and  games  —  the 
fine,  manly  pastimes  of  cricket,  rowing,  running, 
leaping,  climbing,  skating,  riding,  and  even  the 
more  effeminate  amusement  of  dancing — all  owe 
the  greater  part  of  their  charms  to  the  natural 
love  of  exercise  in  human  nature.  Again,  the  en 
joyment  of  traveling  (though  of  course  the  pleas 
ure  of  seeing  strange  countries  and  customs  enters 
largely  into  that  kind  of  gratification)  borrows 
not  a  few  of  its  delights  from  the  same  sense ;  and 
even  that  love  of  wandering,  which  is  termed 
'  vagabondage'  (in  those  who  can  not  afford  to  pay 
hotel  bills),  may  be  referred  to  the  same  cause. 
Indeed,  it  admits  of  a  great  question,  too,  whether 
that  high  principle  of  freedom,  which  is  called 
4  the  love  of  liberty,'  is  not  part  of  that  natural 
vagabond  spirit  in  man,  which,  springing  from  an 
instinctive  delight  in  exercise,  makes  us  averse 
from  all  restraint,  and  ready  to  burst  through 
any  impediment  that  may  be  opposed  to  the  free 


THE    BIGHT    ROAD.  249 

use  of  our  limbs  or  the  natural  exercise  of  our 
will." 

THE  PLEASURES  OF  THE  APPETITES. 

"  And  now,  I  suppose,  you're  going  to  touch 
upon  the  pleasures  of  the  appetites — ain't  you, 
uncle  ?"  again  inquired  the  youth,  after  another 
pause ;  for,  boy-like,  he  was  not  a  little  taken  with 
the  subject. 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  they  come  next,"  the  godfather 
returned ;  "  but  the  pleasures  of  the  appetites  — 
now  that  we  have  gone  over  those  of  the  palate, 
which  gives  to  eating  and  drinking  the  main  part 
of  their  positive  gratification  —  are  mostly  of  a 
purely  negative  character  —  that  is  to  say,  the 
pleasure  that  essentially  belongs  to  them  consists 
chiefly  in  the  removal  of  that  pain  or  uneasiness, 
and  consequent  craving,  which  is  the  characteris 
tic  feeling  of  the  appetite  itself,  and  in  the  substi-. 
tution  of  a  state  of  perfect  ease  and  satisfaction 
in  its  stead.  As  I  said  before,  Ben,  if  hunger  had 
been  made  a  pleasure,  man  would  have  sat  still 
and  starved  with  delight ;  and  as  the  pain  of  hun 
ger,  or  want,  is  one  of  the  chief  ills  in  the  world, 
we  have  here  another  marked  instance  as  to  the 
benevolent  origin  of  what  is  called  '  evil.'  But, 
though  our  appetites,  lad,  have  been  made  pains, 
or  at  least  uneasinesses,  and  that  merely  with  the 
view  of  exciting  us  to  seek  the  things  necessary 
to  appease  them,  the  act  of  appeasing  them  has 
assuredly  been  rendered  a  special  delight  to  us ; 
for  not  only  has  taste  been  superadded  to  the  ap 
petite,  so  as  to  make  the  food  agreeable  to  the 
palate,  but  the  feeling  of  satisfaction,  ease,  and 
contentment,  which  follows  in  the  mind  immedi 
ately  the  craving  is  stopped,  has  been  rendered 
one  of  the  most  tranquil  and  yet  enjoyable  states 
of  which  our  nature  is  susceptible.  Indeed,  the 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

delight  that  all  men  find  in  a  sense  of  ease  and 
satisfaction  is  perhaps  one  of  the  strongest  '  cues 
to  action'  in  human  nature ;  for  not  only  does 
this  pleasurable  state  of  negation  from  pain  or 
uneasiness  immediately  succeed  in  the  mind  on 
the  allaying  of  the  craving  of  the  bodily  appetite, 
but  it  follows  every  other  state  of  bodily  or  men 
tal  disquietude  that  man  can  suffer,  and  makes 
the  sense  of  relief  from  physical  torture  as  intense 
a  pleasure  as  any  in  life.  The  sense  of  effort,  for 
instance,  I  have  before  told  you,  is  always  irk 
some,  and  hence  the  uneasiness  of  what  is  called 
hard  labor ;  and  this  is  what  all  the  world  is  en 
deavoring  to  escape  from,  and  ultimately  settle 
down  into  a  state  of  ease  and  comfort  in  their  old 
age.  No  man  in  existence  likes  work,  though 
there  is  a  cant  abroad  that  industry  is  pleasant ; 
for  work  is  essentially  what  is  irksome,  whereas, 
directly  the  work  becomes  pleasant,  it  is  « play' 
or  4  amusement.'  But  man  must  work,  as  I  said, 
to  live,  and  all  prefer  even  the  irksomeness  of  toil 
to  the  agony  of  starving,  while  most  men  put  up 
with  the  uneasiness  of  their  present  labor  and 
strife  for  the  purpose  of  acquiring  the  means  of 
future  ease  and  rest.  But  effort  is  not  only  irk 
some,  lad,  even  when  exerted  in  a  slight  degree, 
but  it  is  absolutely  painful  when  prolonged  to  a 
great  extent ;  and  it  is  always  fatiguing  when  long 
sustained,  and  ultimately  is  overpowering.  Now 
it  is  this  sense  of  fatigue  which  invariably  follows 
any  long-continued  series  of  efforts  that  makes 
the  ease  of  rest  and  repose  a  source  of  intense  de 
light  to  the  weary.  You  yourself,  Ben,  remember 
how  you  enjoyed  your  bed  after  that  long  pull  at 
the  sculls,  when  we  were  becalmed  in  the  offing 
yonder;  and  every  one  who  has  felt  the  fatigue 
of  a  very  long  walk,  and  known  what  it  is  to  have 
every  muscle  positively  sore  and  tender  W7ith  the 


THE   EIGHT   EOAD.  251 

protracted  exertion — the  limbs  stiff  and  cramped, 
and  the  joints  seeming  to  grate  against  the  bones 
with  every  bend  —  knows  also  that  there  is  per 
haps  no  luxury  in  life  like  rest.  To  many  a  la 
borer,  lad,  who  is  forced  to  be  working  hard  all 
the  week,  and  to  whom  even  the  sleep  of  the 
se'nnight  is  insufficient  to  take  the  crick  out  of  his 
back  and  aches  out  of  his  arms,  the  Sabbath  is 
often  a  sabbath  of  mere  bed,  or,  at  least,  a  large 
slice  of  the  enjoyment  of  the  blessed  day  of  rest 
with  such  people  consists  in  a  sleep  in  the  fields. 
But  not  only  does  the  natural  delight  in  ease,"  he 
went  on,  "show  itself  in  this  way  among  the  poor 
and  hard-working  portion  of  society,  but  the  same 
principle  is  also  strongly  developed  in  the  rich 
and  indolent  members  of  every  community.  It 
is  this  love  of  ease  that  makes  your  fine  folk  de 
light  in  carriages,  so  that  they  may  be  dragged 
along  through  the  air  rather  than  be  put  to  the 
exertion  of  walking ;  and  it  is  the  same  feeling 
which  makes  them  delight  in  a  retinue  of  serv 
ants,  to  save  them  the  trouble  of  doing  the  least 
thing  for  themselves.  Again,  the  nice  charm 
there  is  in  what  are  called  the  c  comforts'  of  life 
derives  its  pleasure  from  the  same  source,  for 
such  comforts  are  but  the  means  of  removing  cer 
tain  little  household  uneasinesses;  and  the  very 
delights  of  home  itself  may  be  referred  to  this 
same  love  of  ease  and  quietude.  To  every  En 
glish  heart,  home  and  comfort  are  the  main  en 
joyments  of  life,  and  yet  it  is  but  the  love  of  ease 
and  quietude  that  makes  the  peace  and  cosiness 
of  our  own  hearth  so  acceptable  after  the  day's 
labors,  the  day's  cares,  and  the  day's  hubbub. 
And,  finally,  it  is  this  very  love  of  ease,  rest,  and 
tranquillity  that  makes  the  tired  pilgrim  through 
life  (when  the  limbs  are  aching  with  their  long 
journey,  the  back  is  crooked  with  the  heavy  load 


262  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FKANKLIN. 

of  years,  and  the  ear  is  deaf  with  the  noise  and 
strife  of  the  world)  sigh  for  the  long  rest  and 
sweet  repose  of  heaven  itself— the  peaceful  home 
of  the  spirit — the  blessed  comfort  of  the  soul." 

THE   PLEASURES    OF   PHYSICAL  EXCITEMENT. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  little  fellow,  "  you've  got 
to  do  the  pleasures  that  come  from  wrhat  d'ye 
call  it  ? — that  other  long  word  you  used." 

"Inordinate  excitement,  Ben,"  added  the  old 
man.  "  Yes,  my  boy,  and  these  will  not  take  us 
long  to  specify,  for  I  have  already,  while  speaking 
of  the  delights  of  health  and  exercise,  pointed  out 
to  you  how  large  a  share  of  those  pleasures  are 
due  to  the  increased  stimulus  given  by  them  to 
the  circulation,  as  well  as  to  every  function  of  the 
body.  There  is,  of  course,  a  strong  physical  en 
joyment  in  feeling  the  blood  go  dancing  through 
the  veins,  and  in  having  a  fine  glow  of  new  life,  as 
it  were,  diffused  throughout  the  entire  frame ;  to 
be  conscious  of  a  new  vigor  being  infused  into 
every  fibre,  and  a  fresh  energy  thrown  into  every 
limb  ;  to  find  the  animal  spirits  suddenly  rise  and 
gladden  our  nature,  like  a  burst  of  sunshine  upon 
the  earth ;  to  see  the  mist  of  the  megrims  grad 
ually  melt  away  from  before  the  eyes ;  to  have 
bright  and  happy  thoughts  come  bubbling  up, 
one  after  another,  into  the  brain,  and  feel  the 
heart  flutter  with  the  very  thrill  of  the  invigo 
rated  system.  Every  one  delights  in  the  gentle 
excitement  of  cheerfulness  as  much  as  they  dislike 
the  wretched  depression  of  melancholy — or  '  low 
spirits,'  as  it  is  called ;  and  it  is  the  sensual  charm 
which  is  to  be  found  in  a  state  of  increased  bodi 
ly  excitement  that  leads  your  drunkard  and  your 
opium-eater  to  fly  to  potions  and  drugs  as  a  means 
of  producing  it,  while  the  gourmand,  whose  stom 
ach  and  palate  have  grown  dull  and  dead  from 


THE   EIGHT   EOAD.  253 

long  indulgence  in  the  highly-seasoned  food  of 
epicurism,  resorts  to  the  strong  stimulus  of  sauces, 
spices,  and  shalotes,  Cayenne,  curries,  and  'devils,' 
as  the  means  of  stinging  his  overworked  gusta 
tory  nerves  into  something  like  liveliness.     It  is 
the  more  remarkable,  too,  that  it  is  only  with 
weak  and  diseased  appetites  and  natures  that  such 
stimuli  or  inordinate  excitements  are  required. 
The  drunkard,  whose  stomach  is  jaded  and  spent 
with  the  continued  goading  of  his  '  drams,'  must 
have  a  '  relish' — some  salt,  savory  snack — before 
he  can  bring  himself  to  touch  any  solid  food ;  the 
sick  person,  recovering  from  a  long  illness,  is  al 
ways  more  or  less  squeamish  in  his  taste,  and  re 
quires  the  little  that  he  does  take  to  be  cooked  in 
some  peculiarly  dainty  manner,  in  order  that  the 
rare  delicacy  of  the  dish  may  'tempt'  him,  and  so 
serve  as  a  gentle  stimulus  to  his  flagging  appetite. 
The  same  delight  in  excitement,  indeed,  prevails 
in  every  one  of  the  senses.    The  eye  loves  the  ex 
tra  vivid  impressions  produced  by  the  contrast  of 
opposite  colors— the  juxtaposition  of  black  and 
white,  red  and  green,  for  example ;  and  even  the 
natural  antipathy  we  have  from  darkness,  and  the 
desire  to  revel  in  a  4  blaze  of  light,'  have  their  or 
igin  in  the  same  tendency  to  delight  in  unusual 
vividness.    To  this  principle,  too,  may  be  referred 
the  charm  we  find  in  the  solemn  grandeur  of  the 
thunder-storm:   in  the  instantaneous  flash  that 
lights  up  the  whole  heavens  and  the  earth  at  once, 
and  then  suddenly  leaves  it  in  pitchy  darkness ; 
in  the  unnatural  stillness  that  reigns  throughout 
all  nature  before  the  storm,  to  be  broken  at  last  by 
the  wild  clatter  of  the  thunder-burst,  that  seems 
like  the  roar  and  tremble  of  an  earthquake  in  the 
heavens   themselves.      These   are   not   only   the 
brightest  and  loudest  effects  in  the  world,  but 
contrast  serves  to  render  them  even  brighter  and 


264  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

louder  than  they  naturally  are.  Again,  lad,  in 
the  sports  and  games  of  youth,  it  is  the  excite 
ment  of  the  play  that  lends  as  great  gratification 
to  the  amusement  as  even  the  exercise  itself." 

THE   PLEASURE    OF   HABIT. 

"  And  now  you've  done,  uncle,  haven't  you  ?" 
said  the  boy,  as  the  old  gentleman  came  to  a 
pause. 

"  Not  quite,  my  lad,"  the  other  made  answer, 
"  for  there  is  still  the  sensual  pleasure  of  habit  to 
be  mentioned  in  order  to  complete  the  catalogue. 
This  pleasure,  again,  like  those  of  health,  exer 
cise,  ease,  and  excitement,  has  no  particular  organ 
to  which  it  can  be  referred,  but  it  is  rather  a  de 
light  that  admits  of  being  connected  with  any  or 
all  of  the  more  special  sensations  themselves.  Of 
the  strange  pleasures  which  habit  has  the  power 
of  developing  in  us — of  its  power  to  transform 
what  is  naturally  irksome  and  even  painful  into 
delights,  and  to  change  aversions  into  propensi 
ties,  I  have  before  spoken.  I  have  pointed  out  to 
you  that  all  which  is  required  to  work  this  mar 
velous  change  is  long-continued  repetition,  and 
that,  too,  at  frequent  and  regular  intervals ;  but 
the  change  once  wrought,  the  pleasure  we  derive 
from  the  object  or  practice  to  which  we  have  be 
come  habituated  is,  perhaps,  as  great  as  any  of 
our  natural  enjoyments.  For  instance,  there  is 
no  doubt  that  the  taste,  and  maybe  even  the  smell 
of  tobacco,  is  innately  repulsive ;  and  yet,  let  any 
one  persevere  in  the  use  of  it — let  him  continue 
either  smoking,  chewing,  or  snuffing  it,  and  after 
a  time  habit  is  sure  to  set  in,  and  transform  the 
instinctive  loathing  into  a  cultivated  longing — 
the  natural  abomination  into  an  artificial  delicacy. 
It  is  the  same  with  the  eating  of  opium  and  the 
drinking  of  neat  spirits.  With  the  muscular  ae- 


THE    RIGHT    KOAD.  253 

tions  of  the  body,  again,  as  well  as  the  objects  of 
the  senses,  the  same  principle  of  transformation 
holds  good.  You  have  already  been  told  how 
the  irksomeness  of  labor,  Ben,  can  be  converted 
into  a  comparative  pleasure  by  habit,  and  it  now 
only  remains  for  me  to  draw  your  attention,  lad, 
to  some  few  other  pleasures  of  the  same  kind. 
The  pleasure  of  exercise,  we  all  know,  is  so  much 
increased  by  the  habit  of  walking  daily,  that  per 
haps  the  chief  punishment  in  imprisonment  lies  in 
the  mental  and  bodily  irritation  which  is  felt  when 
indulgence  in  the  habit  is  prevented.  Again,  as 
I  said  before,  there  is  pleasure  even  in  whittling 
or  paring  sticks  with  a  sharp  knife,  as  you  see  the 
people  continually  doing  in  this  part  of  the  world ; 
and,  indeed,  the  simple  habit  in  children  of  biting 
the  nails  produces  so  strong  a  desire  to  continue 
the  practice  that  their  hands  have  occasionally  to 
be  muffled,  or  their  arms  strapped  behind,  to  pre 
vent  them  indulging  in  the  practice.  Farther, 
there  is  the  well-known  story  of  the  barrister, 
who  always  kept  twiddling  a  piece  of  string  when 
he  was  pleading,  and  who  could  be  most  eloquent 
Avhile  habitually  engaged  in  unraveling  the  twine, 
but  who  couldn't  get  a  word  out  if  some  wicked 
wag  only  stole  the  string  before  he  began  his  ad 
dress  to  the  jury.  Nor  is  this  all;  so  strong  a 
hold  does  habit  lay  upon  the  mind,  that  the  na 
tional  customs  of  a  country  are  often  as  much  re 
vered  as  even  the  national  religion  itself;  and  not 
a  few  revolutions  have  been  caused  by  the  at 
tempts  of  rulers  to  alter  the  habits  and  ceremonies 
of  a  people.  There,  now  I  have  done,  Master 
Ben,"  added  the  uncle,  "  and  given  you,  I  believe, 
a  full  list  of  the  purely  physical  pleasures  that  our 
nature  is  capable  of  enjoying." 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 


THE  RESULT:  THE  BUSINESS  OF  LIFE. 

"Thank  you,  uncle,"  said  the  lad,  as  he  rose 
from  the  rock  on  which  he  had  been  seated ;  "and 
now,  I  suppose,  we  can  go ;"  for,  to  tell  the  truth, 
though  little  Ben  was  a  good  listener  for  his 
years,  he  had  almost  had  enough  lecturing  for  one 
sitting. 

"  Go,  boy !"  echoed  the  elder  Benjamin,  with 
pretended  disdain ;  "why,  what  did  we  come  for, 
you  rogue  ?  We  came,  Master  Ben,  to  put  you 
on  the  right  road,  but  as  yet  we  haven't  advanced 
a  step.  We  are  only  staring  up  at  the  sign-post 
still,  and  haven't  even  decided  whether  it  will  be 
better  to  go  the  way  the  senses  would  lead  us, 
or  whether  we  shall  follow  the  path  the  intellect 
points  out,  or  take  the  road  the  heart  would  coun 
sel  us  to  pursue." 

"  Oh,  ay !  no  more  we  have,  uncle.  Do  you 
know,  I  had  forgotten  all  about  that"  answered 
the  frank  lad,  who  was  too  little  skilled  in  the 
subtleties  of  dialectics  to  be  able  to  keep  the 
point  of  the  argument  always  in  view.  "  Well, 
then,  I  suppose,  now  that  you've  explained  all 
about  the  sensual  pleasures,  you're  going  to  show 
me  next  why  they're  not  so  good  as  the  intellect 
ual  or  moral  ones." 

"  I  never  yet  gave  you  to  understand,  lad,  that 
they  were  not  as  good,  in  their  way,  as  the  oth 
ers,"  was  the  gentle  reproof.  "  When  kept  with 
in  due  bounds,  and  held  to  their  proper  objects, 
there  is  assuredly  no  harm  in  the  pleasures  of  the 
senses." 

"  Yes ;  but  what  are  those  due  bounds,  as  you 
call  them,  uncle  ?"  inquired  the  youngster. 

"  The  bounds  of  nature,  boy ;  the  bounds  of 
the  fitness  of  things,"  the  teacher  replied.  "  See 
here,  Ben,  and  mark  well  what  I  say.  The  three 


THE    KIGHT   ROAD.  25T 

main  objects  of  life  are  these :  business,  amuse 
ments,  and  duties.  It  is  the  chief  business  of  life 
to  get  food  and  clothing  for  the  body ;  to  pro 
vide  ourselves  and  those  who  belong  to  us  with 
shelter,  and,  if  we  can,  with  the  comforts  of  exist 
ence,  as  well  as  to  lay  by  such  a  store  as  shall  in 
sure  us  the  means  of  ease,  if  not  affluence,  in  our 
old  age.  The  main  business  of  life,  then,  you  per 
ceive,  lad,  is  merely  to  minister  to  the  wants  and 
delights  of  our  senses,  or,  in  other  words,  not  only 
to  prevent  the  pains  and  uneasinesses  of  the  flesh, 
but  to  obtain  some  small  share  of  the  animal  pleas 
ures  of  existence.  The  addition  of  the  feelings  of 
delight  and  disgust  to  the  mere  perceptive  facul 
ties  of  the  senses,  Ben,  I  have  before  shown  you, 
is  a  signal  evidence  of  God's  goodness  to  his 
creatures.  Food  is  necessary  only  to  reinvig- 
orate  the  body  and  allay  the  pains  of  appetite. 
No  other  quality  was  required  for  the  mere  pur 
poses  of  continued  animal  existence ;  but  the  Al 
mighty  has  made  food  agreeable  to  the  palate 
also.  Light  and  color  were  all  that  was  wanted 
for  vision,  but  He  has  made  them  beautiful  as 
well ;  sound  alone  would  have  been  sufficient  for 
hearing,  but  he  has  superadded  melody  and  har 
mony  ;  and  it  is  only  an  ascetic  bigot,  therefore, 
who  is  insensible  to  the  bounty  of  God's  benev 
olence  in  the  world,  that  believes  he  is  leading  a 
righteous  life  in  shunning  all  the  graceful  charms 
of  sentient  nature." 

The  boy  stared  with  astonishment  to  hear  his 
half-Puritan  godfather  give  vent  to  such  senti 
ments,  and  inquired,  "  Then  why,  uncle,  were  the 
epicure  and  the  drunkard  such  offensive  charac 
ters  ?" 

"  Because,  my  lad,  they  ignored  the  stern  busi 
ness  of  life,  and  gave  every  thought  of  their  mind, 
every  affection  of  their  heart,  to  mere  animal  pleas- 
R 


35S  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

ure.  That  form  of  pleasure  which,  kept  within  its 
own  natural  bounds,  is,  remember,  an  qfter-gra.ee, 
they  made  a  primary  pursuit  of;  the  sensual  de 
lights,  which  have  been  superadded  as  a  graceful 
reward  after  the  hard  business  of  life  has  been 
done,  they  made  the  whole  and  sole  business 
of  their  lives ;  in  other  words,  they  strove,  like 
dunces,  to  get  the  reward  while  they  shirked  the 
task,"  was  the  response.  "  The  rudest  form  of  an 
imal  life,  Ben,"  he  went  on,  "  the  last  link  in  the 
long  chain  of  sentient  existence,  is  a  polype,  with 
out  eyes,  limbs,  heart,  nerves,  or,  indeed,  any  or 
gan  of  sense,  and  hardly  of  motion  ;  a  mere  an 
imated  stomach ;  a  living  thing  that  you  can  turn 
inside  out,  and  which  still  goes  on  performing  its 
one  function  of  eating  and  drinking  as  compla 
cently  as  ever ;  an  animate  creature  that  is  all  bel 
ly  and  nothing  else.  The  epicure  and  the  drunk 
ard,  lad,  are  human  polypes  —  the  'gastropods' 
of  mankind,  whose  belly  is  the  only  organ  that 
moves  them,  and  stirred  by  which,  like  slugs,  they 
go  crawling  and  slavering  along  through  the  brief 
term  of  human  existence.  The  business  of  life, 
my  son,  is  to  get  the  means  of  living ;  but  the 
means  of  living  are  wanted  not  merely  to  tickle 
the  palate,  but  to  enable  us  to  satisfy  all  the  crav 
ings,  requirements,  and  aspirations — all  the  du 
ties,  affections,  and  yearnings  of  our  nature.  The 
grand  object,  Ben,  is  to  make  the  business  of  life  a 
pleasure,  and  not  the  pleasures  of  life  a  business." 

"  I  think  I  understand  what  you  mean  by  the 
business  of  life  now,  and  see  why  the  drunkard 
and  the  epicure  are  not  worthy  people." 

"  There  is  but  one  other  point  now,"  said  the 
old  man,  "  and  then  I  have  really  done,  my  child." 

"  And  what  is  that,  Uncle  Ben  ?"  the  boy  ask 
ed,  as  he  grew  a  little  fidgety. 

"  Well,  lad,"  the  godfather  went  on,  "  you  re- 


THE    EIGHT   EOAD.  259 

member  I  pointed  out  to  you  at  the  beginning  of 
the  subject  that  our  sensations  all  come  from 
without  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  recollect  you  said  that  sensations 
always  had  an  external  cause,  and  thoughts  an  in 
ternal  one — those  were  your  words,  unky,  dear," 
exclaimed  the  little  fellow,  roused  by  the  pride  of 
having  an  opportunity  of  showing  how  attentive 
he  had  been. 

"  They  Avere,  Ben ;  and  such  impressions,  com 
ing  from  without,  of  course  do  not  depend  upon 
ourselves,"  added  the  uncle.  "  We  must  go  and 
hunt  in  the  world  for  such  objects  as  we  desire  to 
act  pleasantly  upon  our  senses.  But  these  objects 
are  often  to  be  procured  only  by  extreme  labor 
on  our  parts,  or  at  great  cost,  in  order  to  induce 
others  to  part  with  them  for  our  benefit.  Hence 
sensual  pleasures  are  always  the  most  costly  of 
all  pleasures.  The  delights  of  the  palate,  for  in 
stance,  are  found  chiefly  in  the  more  expensive 
viands,  fruits,  and  wines,  as  well  as  the  rare  deli 
cacies  which  are  either  brought  from  the  farthest 
corners  of  the  earth,  or  forced  into  maturity  by 
great  care  and  trouble  at  unusual  seasons  of  the 
year.  For  the  luxurious  gratification  of  the  eye, 
again,  we  need  the  show  of  superb  services  of 
plate — the  dear  finery  of  jewels,  and  silks  and 
satins,  velvet  and  lace — the  magnificence  of  state 
ly  halls,  elegant  furniture,  and  splendid  decora 
tions — the  prettiness  of  gay  gardens,  and  the  no 
ble  grandeur  of  parks.  And  it  is  the  same  with 
every  other  sense  appertaining  to  human  natute ; 
for  the  highly-prized  objects  of  delight  to  each  of 
the  physical  faculties  are  sure  to  be  highly  priced 
also.  Indeed,  the  only  means  of  sensual  enjoy 
ment  that  we  have  really  within  our  own  power, 
and  which  does  not  require  some  external  object 
for  its  gratification,  is  that  of  exercise ;  for  the 


260  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

objects  upon  which  exercise  expends  itself  are 
our  own  limbs  and  the  muscles  of  our  own  body. 
Hence  the  games  and  sports  which  make  this 
physical  indulgence  so  agreeable  to  men  as  well 
as  youth  are  sources  of  harmless  and  healthful 
pleasure  always  within  our  grasp,  and  hence  the 
very  exercise  of  labor  itself,  when  quickened  by 
the  excitement  of  will  or  purpose,  or  transformed 
into  a  propensity  by  long  habit — of  labor,  which 
is  not  only  necessary  to  our  independence,  and 
even  continued  existence  in  the  world — is  a  fac 
ulty  that  lies  literally  at  our  fingers'  ends,  and 
which  may  be  made  to  contribute  at  once  to  our 
well-being  and  to  our  happiness.  Finally,  I  should 
impress  upon  you,  my  boy,  that  with  the  undue 
indulgence  in  any  mere  physical  delight  there  is  al 
ways  some  peculiar  bodily  evil  connected.  Over 
indulgence  of  the  palate  brings  gout,  dyspepsia, 
apoplexy,  and  the  utter  ruin  of  bodily  health; 
overdrinking  causes  delirium  tremens,  softening 
of  the  brain,  and  the  soddening,  even  to  fatuity, 
of  the  mind.  Overwork,  on  the  other  hand,  pro 
duces  premature  old  age  and  decay;  and  over- 
ease,  in  its  turn,  begets  indolence,  corpulency,  and 
positive  helplessness.  These,  my  lad,  are  the 
worldly  punishments  instituted  by  the  Great 
Judge  over  all — the  brands  which  the  Almighty 
prints  on  the  brows  of  the  fools  and  human  beasts 
of  the  world,  and  that  are  intended  to  whisper 
'Beware'  in  the  ears  of  the  more  wise  and  pru 
dent." 

>'  Well,  then,"  said  the  little  fellow,  "  I  think 
sensual  pleasures  are  but  sorry  pleasures  after  all, 
uncle." 

"  They  are,  as  I  said,  lad,  designed  to  render  the 
business  of  life  agreeable  in  the  end,  and  hence 
were  never  intended  to  be  made  the  primary  pur 
suit  of  man's  existence ;  and  those  who  wrest 


THE    EIGHT   ROAD.  261 

them  from  their  true  purpose,  and  seek  to  trans 
form  them  into  amusements,  must  suffer  for  their 
folly.  If  men  have  no  want  of  food,  and  will  yet 
eat  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  eating  some  savory 
dish,  they  not  only  lack  the  natural  relish  of  food, 
but  they  break  a  natural  commandment,  which 
ordained  that  hunger  should  stir  men  to  seek  food, 
and  that  the  pleasure  of  eating  it  should  be  the 
reward  of  getting  it.  And  the  breach  of  this 
natural  commandment  brings,  sooner  or  later,  its 
own  peculiar  natural  punishment — bodily  enfee- 
blement  instead  of  strength  and  vigor  —  injury 
rather  than  well-being — suffering  and  disease  in 
the  place  of  happiness  and  health." 

The  words  were  barely  uttered  when  Uncle 
Benjamin  started  as  he  cried  "Hush!  what 
o'clock's  that  ?"  and  the  sound  of  the  big  bell  of 
the  State  House  clock  was  heard  booming  in  the 
silence  of  the  night  resonantly  across  the  water. 

"One!  two!  three!  four!"  counted  the  old 
man,  following  each  stroke  as  it  burst  upon  the 
air. 

"  It's  nine,  I'm  sure,  uncle,"  interjected  little 
Ben. 

"  Five !  six !  seven !"  continued  the  other. 

"It  must  be  nine,"  added  the  boy, "  for  we  can't 
have  been  here  more  than  two  hours,  and  it  wasn't 
quite  seven,  you  know,  when  we  started." 

"  Eight !  nine !"  Uncle  Benjamin  kept  count 
ing  as  the  other  talked,  and  then,  holding  up  his 
finger  as  he  reckoned  the  ninth  stroke,  he  waited 
for  a  moment  or  two,  and  at  last  shouted  out,  as 
he  rose  hastily  from  his  seat,  "Ten!  as  I'm  a 
living  sinner.  Come  along,  Ben,  come  along ;  we 
shall  have  them  all  in  bed  before  we  get  home.  I 
declare." 


YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE   NEXT   TURNING. 

THE  following  night  the  same  couple  were  seat 
ed  on  the  same  lump  of  rock,  looking  at  the  same 
bright  moon  and  stars,  and  engaged  in  solving 
the  same  subtle  problem,  "Which  is  the  right 
road  through  life  ?" 

"  Now,  then,  Master  Benjamin,"  began  the 
good-natured  old  tutor,  as  freshly  as  if  "lie  were 
never  tired  of  counseling  his  little  godson  as  to 
how  to  live  a  righteous  and  sober  life,  "  we  have 
seen  where  one  of  the  roads  leads  to ;  we  have 
learned  that  if  we  follow  the  path  of  mere  sensual 
pleasure  we  must  expect  to  pay  heavy  tolls  and 
taxes  by  the  wray,  and  shall  come  to  only  disease 
and  anguish  at  the  end.  So  let  us  take  a  peep 
down  the  next  turning,  and  see  what  looms  in  the 
distance  there." 

"  The  next  turning,  as  you  call  it,  uncle,  looks 
like  a  nice,  quiet,  shady  lane  to  me,"  remarked 
the  pupil,  only  too  pleased  to  carry  out  the  figure. 
"  It's  the  path  of  intellectual  pleasure,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  It  is,  my  son,"  the  other  answered  ;  "  and  as 
the  main  object  of  the  business  of  life  is  to  stay 
the  cravings  and  relieve  the  uneasinesses,  as  well 
as  to  contribute  to  the  natural  delights  of  the 
senses,  so,  with  the  amusements  of  life,  intellect 
ual  pleasure  is,  or  should  be,  more  directly  con 
nected.  The  physical  word  for  amusement,  Ben, 
is  recreation  ;  and  a  fine  term  it  is,  as  expressing 
that  re-enlivenment  and  reinvigoration  of  the  ja 
ded  powers  of  body  and  mind  which  come  from 
mental  diversion.  Enlightened  amusement  is 


THE   NEXT   TUENING.  2fi3 

really  mental  refreshment  —  a,  cooling  draught 
from  a  shady  spring,  that  sobers  and  revives  the 
soul  after  the  heat  of  the  work-day  world  far 
more  than  any  of  the  fiery  stimulants  which  the 
senses  delight  in.  I  told  you,  lad,  you  remember, 
when  treating  of  the  sense  of  effort,  that  it  was 
always  irksome,  occasionally  painful,  and,  if  long- 
continued,  fatiguing,  and  ultimately  overpower 
ing,  for  us  to  take  any  severe  exertion.  Now  the 
natural  means  of  removing  fatigue  is  by  rest ;  for 
the  sense  of  weariness,  which  oppresses  the  limba 
after  protracted  labor,  is  merely  the  Almighty's 
voice  whispering  '  Hold  !  enough  !'  and  warning 
us  not  to  overtax  the  powers  He  has  conferred 
upon  us ;  and  when  this  weariness  sets  in,  the 
craving  for  rest  which  he  has  implanted  in  us  tells 
us  that  mere  repose  alone  is  sufficient  for  the  re 
cruitment  of  the  spent  animal  strength  and  spir 
its.  But  the  change  that  rest  produces  in  the 
frame  passively,  amusement,  or  mere  diversion  of 
the  mind  from  the  laborious  pursuits,  brings  about 
actively.  The  action  of  diversion  recreates  and 
reinvigorates  as  much  as  positive  inaction  or  re 
pose,  and  hence  amusement  after  the  day's  busi 
ness  and  labor  have  been  done  is  as  healthful  as 
rest  itself —  ay,  and  as  necessary  too,  for  the  res 
toration  of  that  elasticity  of  energy — that  spring 
of  body  and  mind  —  which  is  requisite  for  the 
doing  of  the  business  and  labor  of  to-morrow." 

Little  Ben  was  delighted  to  learn  the  philoso 
phy  of  amusement,  for,  boy-like,  he  was  quite  suf 
ficiently  in  love  with  recreation  to  be  glad  to  hear 
that  there  was  not  only  an  excuse,  but  really  a 
reason  for  indulging  in  the  pleasant  pastimes  of 
life ;  so  he  chimed  in,  "  Yes,  uncle,  I've  often 
heard  you  tell  father  that  c  all  work  and  no  play 
makes  Jack  a  dull  boy,'  and  now  I  know  the 
truth  of  the  saying." 


264  YOUNG  BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

"  Ah !  lad,  but  always  bear  in  mind  the  con 
verse  of  the  proverb,"  was  the  rejoinder,  " '  that 
all  play  and  no  work  makes  Jack  a  beggar-boy.5 " 

THE   PLEASURES    OP   THE   INTELLECT. 

"  Well,  Ben,  with  this  little  preface,"  the  uncle 
resumed,  "  we  now  pass  on  to  consider  the  sev 
eral  intellectual  pleasures  themselves.  To  each 
intellectual  faculty  of  our  nature,  then,"  he  be 
gan,  "  there  is,  of  course,  some  special  associate 
mental  delight  attached,  in  the  same  manner  as 
there  is  some  peculiar  kind  of  animal  pleasure 
connected  with  the  various  organs  of  sense ;  and 
I  might  proceed  with  this  part  of  our  subject  by 
explaining  to  you,  in  due  order,  all  the  particular 
pleasures  of  the  memory — the  pleasures  of  the 
imagination — the  pleasures  of  the  judgment — the 
pleasures  of  reason — the  pleasures  of  art — the 
pleasures  of  abstraction,  and  so  on.  But  this 
mode  of  procedure  would  convey  to  you,  compar 
atively  speaking,  but  little  knowledge  as  to  the 
mainsprings  or  sources  of  such  pleasures,  and  I 
want  to  give  you  a  deeper  insight  into  your  own 
nature,  my  child,  than  comes  of  mere  classifica 
tion  or  orderly  arrangement.  I  want  to  let  you 
see  that  the  general  capacities  for  enjoyment  in 
man  are  really  the  same  in  the  intellect  as  in  the 
senses  themselves,  and  that  the  only  difference  is, 
that  with  the  various  forms  of  mental  delight  the 
pleasure  comes  in  through  the  operation  of  the 
thoughts,  while  in  the  various  kinds  of  animal 
delight  the  gratification  enters  through  the  action 
of  some  organ  of  sensation.  Now,  lad,  let  me 
hear  whether  you  can  enumerate  the  different 
kinds  of  sensuous  pleasure  of  which  human  na 
ture  is  susceptible,  over  and  beyond  those  which 
belong  to  what  are  called  the  five  senses,  and  also 
that  of  heat  and  cold,  for  these  we  have  done  with.'* 


THE   NEXT  TURNING.  265 

Young  Ben  put  his  head  to  one  side,  and  rub 
bed  away  at  his  scalp  as  hard  as  a  cat  does  occa 
sionally  at  its  ear,  as  he  exclaimed,  "  Let  me  see ! 
there's  the  pleasure  of  the  sense  of  perfect  conva 
lescence  ;  I  remember  that,  because  of  that  plaguy 
hard  word.  And  then  there's  another  one,  with 
a  long-winded  title,  too,  but  he  comes  at  the  last, 
I  know ;"  the  boy  went  on  talking  away,  as  he 
tried  to  recall  the  sensations  in  the  order  his  un 
cle  had  gone  over  them.  "  Oh  yes !  then  there 
is  the  pleasure  of  exercise,  and  the  pleasure  of 
ease  and  satisfaction ;  and  then  comes  Mr.  Crack- 
jaw,  and  he's  called  the  pleasure  of— of— don't 
you  tell  me  now — of — inordinate  excitement. 
Yes,  that's  it !"  he  added,  as  the  thought  came 
out  with  a  pop,  like  the  cork  from  a  bottle  of 
soda-water.  "  Oh !  but  wait  a  minute,"  he  cried, 
as  he  saw  his  uncle  still  looking  at  him,  as  much 
as  to  say  he  had  forgotten  something — "  and  then 
there's  the  pleasure  of  habit  as  well." 

"  Bravo,  little  man,  bravo !"  cheered  the  old 
boy,  for  really  the  uncle  was  as  pleased  with  the 
feat  as  the  little  fellow  himself.  "And  now, 
omitting  the  pleasures  of  health,  I  want  to  show 
you,  Ben,  that  we  find  the  same  delight  in  mental 
exercise  as  in  the  exercise  of  our  bodies;  the 
same  pleasure  in  the  satisfaction  of  our  minds, 
and  freedom  from  any  state  of  mental  uneasiness, 
as  in  the  allaying  of  any  bodily  craving  or  un 
pleasantness  ;  the  same  gratification  in  vivid 
thoughts  and  perceptions  as  in  extra-lively  sensa 
tions  and  bodily  stimulants ;  and  the  same  enjoy 
ment  in  the  indulgence  in  particular  habits  of 
thinking  as  well  as  feeling." 

"How  strange!"  murmured  the  lad;  "but  I 
can't  see  how  you'll  ever  make  it  all  out,  though." 

"  The  delights  of  exercise,  satisfaction,  inordi 
nate  vividness,  and  habit,"  continued  the  god- 


266  YOUNG  BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

father,  "  are  as  strongly  marked  in  the  mind  as 
in  the  body ;  and  as  the  corresponding  physical 
impressions  appear  to  come  in  through  no  special 
organ  of  sense,  but  to  be  impressions  that  admit 
of  being  associated  with  all  or  any  of  our  physical 
faculties,  so  the  capacity  for  these  kinds  of  pleas 
ure  would  seem  to  be  general  capacities  that  are 
capable  of  being  united  to  the  operations  of  the 
mind  as  well  as  that  of  the  senses,  and  to  be  the 
means  of  enjoyment,  as  it  were,  underlying  all 
our  bodily  and  mental  powers  at  one  and  the  same 
time." 

THE   PLEASURES    OF   MENTAL   EXEECISE. 

"  Let  us  begin  with  the  pleasures  of  mental  ex 
ercise." 

The  lad  nestled  up  close  to  his  godfather,  and, 
curling  the  old  man's  arms  about  his  neck,  ar 
ranged  himself  in  a  comfortable  posture  for  list 
ening. 

"  The  principle  of  the  '  association  of  ideas,'  as 
it  is  called,"  commenced  the  tutor — "that  prin 
ciple  by  which  thought  is  linked  with  thought  in 
the  mind,  and  which  causes  conception  after  con 
ception,  and  remembrance  after  remembrance  to 
keep  on  forever  sweeping  through  the  brain  (like 
the  endless  procession  of  clouds  across  the  sky, 
or  the  interminable  succession  of  waves  over  the 
sea)  is  the  principal  means  by  which  the  mind  is 
moved  from  object  to  object,  and  made  to  appear, 
even  to  the  individual  himself,  to  pass  through  a 
series  of  images  and  recollections  rather  than  the 
images  and  recollections  seeming  to  flit  success 
ively  through  it.  It  is  this  movement  of  the 
mind,  this  transition  from  one  state  to  another, 
which  corresponds  with  that  gradual  change  of 
place  and  play  of  limb  which  is  termed  exercise  in 
the  body ;  and  as  we  are  conscious  of  a  continued 


THE    NEXT   TURNING.  267 

action  going  on  within  our  physical  system  every 
time  we  move  our  muscles  (apart  from  the  mere 
sensations  of  the  flesh),  so  are  we  sensible  of  the 
same  kind  of  action  perpetually  occurring  within 
us  during  the  process  of  mental  exercise.  Indeed, 
as  our  limbs  move,  whether  voluntarily  or  instinct 
ively,  only  in  answer  to  some  preceding  mental 
state,  it  is  probably  nothing  more  than  the  suc 
cession  of  these  different  mental  states — the  con 
tinued  acts  of  volition  or  series  of  instinctive  im 
pulses  felt  in  the  mind — that  impresses  us  with 
the  sense  of  bodily  exercise  itself. 

"Well,  lad,"  Uncle  Benjamin  went  on,  after  a 
brief  pause, "  having  now  settled  that  the  sense  of 
exercise  is  one  and  the  same  feeling,  whether  the 
action  be  in  the  body  or  mind,  let  us  pass  on  to 
the  enumeration  of  the  mental  pleasures  which 
proceed  from  it.  That  there  is  a  natural  charm 
in  the  mere  exercise  of  the  mind — in  the  contin 
ued  gradual  transition  from  one  mental  state  to 
another — is  shown  in  the  delight  that  is  generally 
felt  in  indulging  in  those  kinds  of  ideal  pano 
ramas,  those  long  trains  of  flitting  fancies,  that 
pass  half-pictured  before  the  'mind's  eye'  even 
in  our  waking  moments,  and  which  are  termed 
*  day-dreams,'  or  '  reveries,'  or  '  wool-gathering.' 
Again,  the  pleasures  of  contemplation  and  medi 
tation — of  '  brown  studies,'  as  they're  termed — 
are  due  to  the  same  principle ;  and  so  is  the  de 
light  that  some  find  in  planning  and  inventing, 
and  even  in  building  what  are  called  'castles  in 
the  air.'  Indeed,  any  mental  process  that  excites 
thought  after  thought  readily  and  steadily  within 
us  produces  (as  the  ideas  keep  sweeping  through 
the  mind)  a  kind  of  mellifluence,  as  it  were,  in  the 
brain,  that  is  essentially  agreeable  to  our  nature. 
Again,  the  pleasures  of  conversing,  discoursing, 
and  reading  may  be  all  referred  to  the  like  cause ; 


268  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

for,  apart  from  any  special  charm  there  may  be  in 
the  different  ideas  thus  introduced  into  the  mind, 
there  is  a  delight  in  the  mere  mental  occupation 
and  exercise  that  such  acts  afford  us.  Farther,  it 
is  in  the  suggestiveness  of  certain  subjects  and 
ideas,  as  well  as  of  certain  objects  in  nature,  and 
consequently  in  the  exercise  they  afford  to  the 
mind,  that  a  great  part  of  natural  and  artistic 
beauty  inheres.  It  is  also  on  account  of  this  sug 
gestive  property  that  keepsakes,  relics,  heir-looms, 
portraits,  and  mementoes  generally,  make  up  the 
most  highly-prized  portion  of  every  person's  treas 
ure,  serving,  as  they  do,  to  revive  or  recall  a  long 
train  of  happy  associations  in  connection  with 
some  beloved  object,  and  that  with  a  vividness  and 
force  that  mere  memory,  without  some  such  sug- 
gestors,  could  not  possibly  attain.  For  the  same 
reason,  the  favorite  old  haunts  of  former  days,  or 
the  birthplaces  or  residences  of  the  illustrious 
dead,  and  the  ruins  of  ancient  countries,  castles, 
or  abbeys,  are  objects  of  more  or  less  beauty  in 
the  eyes  of  every  one,  and  they  are  so  principally 
for  their  power  of  suggesting  to  us  the  thoughts 
of  all  the  glory  of  the  times  connected  with  them. 
Again,  many  of  our  mental  pastimes  are  sources 
of  pleasure  only  as  affording  exercise,  or  acting  as 
springs  of  suggestion  to  the  mind.  This  is  the 
case  especially  with  the  light  amusement  of  rid 
dles,  and  those  tantalizing  charms  called '  puzzles.' 
Moreover,  many  forms  of  wit — the  wit  of  innuen 
does  and  inferences,  for  instance — derive  their  de 
light  simply  from  this  principle  of  mental  exercise, 
i.  e.,  by  leaving  the  mind  to  suggest  the  thought 
intended  to  be  conveyed.  Thus,  in  the  old  joke, 
we  are  told  that  a  townsman  said  to  a  country 
man,  who  was  leaning  listlessly  over  a  gate,  that 
he  looked  as  if  he  couldn't  say  '  Boh  to  a  goose ;' 
whereupon  the  chawbacon  shouted  '  Boh'  at  the 


THE   NEXT   TUKNING.  269 

other  in  reply.  Now  in  this  c  lively  sally,'  as  it  is 
called,  it  is  obvious  that  the  liveliness  lies  not  alone 
in  the  readiness  of  the  retort,  but  in  the  sly  way 
in  which  it  suggests  to  us  that  the  townsman  is 
one  of  the  silly  old  birds  that  are  sometimes  caught 
by  chaff.  So,  too,  in  the  anecdote — " 

"  Yes,  uncle,  that's  right,"  interposed  little  Ben, 
who  was  still  chuckling  over  the  relish  of  the  last 
jest,  and  all  agog  with  delight  at  the  prospect  of 
another  anecdote.  "  Go  on ;  isn't  it  prime,  that's 
all!" 

"  In  the  anecdote,  I  say,  lad,  where  a  would-be 
witty  officer  is  said  to  have  asked  a  Roman  Catho 
lic  priest  why  the  papist  clergymen  were  like 
donkeys,  and  to  have  answered,  when  the  priest 
4  gave  up'  the  riddle, '  Because  they  all  had  crosses 
on  their  backs ;'  whereupon  the  sly  old  papist,  who 
was  determined  not  to  be  outdone,  demanded  in 
his  turn  whether  the  soldier  could  tell  what  was 
the  difference  between  a  military  officer  and  a 
jackass ;  and  on  the  other  shaking  his  head,  and 
saying  he  '  couldn't  see  it,'  the  priest  added  sim 
ply,  '  No  more  can  I !' — in  this  anecdote,  I  repeat, 
we  have  another  illustration  of  the  same  kind  of 
suggestive  wit,  namely,  in  the  sly  inference  of  the 
priest  that  he  couldn't  see  any  difference  between 
the  two  creatures." 

"  Oh,  I  take  it  now !"  exclaimed  the  lad,  thump 
ing  the  air  with  his  fist  as  his  godfather  threw  in 
the  explanation.  "  The  priest  was  a  sly  rogue  of 
a  fellow,  wasn't  he,  uncle  ?"  the  boy  added,  while 
he  rolled  about,  and  went  into  such  convulsions 
of  positive  horse  laughter  that  the  chuckle  sound 
ed  very  much  like  a  neigh. 

"  Ay,  Ben ;  and  the  delight  you  find  in  such  sly 
roguery  shows  you  the  pleasure  there  is  in  sug 
gesting  or  inferring  rather  than  saying  what  we 
have  to  say,  and  thus  leaving  it  to  the  mind  to 


2TO  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

take  up  the  sense  by  some  act  or  exercise  of  its 
own.  In  irony,  moreover,  the  very  opposite  is 
said  from  what  is  meant  to  be  understood,  and 
the  true  sense  implied  only  by  the  tone  and  man 
ner  of  saying  it,  as  when  I  call  you  '  a  young 
rogue'  and  '  a  little  rascal'  by  way  of  endearment, 
Ben"  (and,  as  the  old  man  uttered  the  words,  he 
shook  the  pet  boy  playfully  by  the  ear).  "In 
poetry,  also,  the  like  principle  of  suggestion  is 
often  made  to  act  as  a  stimulus  to  the  imagina 
tion,  and  to  give  by  such  means  a  high  beauty 
to  the  art.  Milton,  for  instance,  in  speaking  of 
death,  says  very  finely, 

"  'And  on  what  seemed  a  head  he  wore  a  crown.'* 

"  Indeed,  a  hundred  such  examples  of  the  beau 
ty  of  the  suggestive  principle  in  art  might  be  giv 
en  ;f  so  that  there  can  be  no  doubt,  Ben,  that  exer- 

*  The  same  beauty  of  the  suggestive  principle  in  pictorial 
art  is  shown  in  shrouding  with  the  hands  the  features  of  fig 
ures  in  extreme  grief;  while  in  musical  art,  Beethoven's 
pastoral  symphony,  and  Gliick's  overture  to  "Iphigenia," 
and  Mendelssohn's  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  are  illus 
trious  instances  of  the  suggestivity  of  the  works  of  the  high 
est  composers. 

t  The  three  most  suggestive  poems,  perhaps,  in  the  En 
glish  language  are  Wordsworth's  "We  are  seven,"  Cole 
ridge's  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  and  Edgar  Foe's  "Raven  ;"  and 
they  may  be  said  to  take  precedence  as  to  beauty  in  the  or 
der  in  which  they  are  here  set  down.  The  little  unadorned 
gem  of  Wordsworth  is  assuredly  the  finest  thing  of  the  kind 
ever  penned.  The  opening  prelude,  as  to  the  great  mystery 
of  death  to  a  little  child,  and  then  the  exquisitely-innocent 
and  touching  manner  in  which  the  wee  thing  numbers  the 
dead  brother  as  one  of  the  family  still  living,  and  the  sweet, 
tender,  and  yet  profound  grace  of  the  recurring  burden  "  We 
are  seven,"  is  such  a  masterly  opening-up  of  the  highest  su 
pernatural  speculation,  in  connection  with  the  simplest  and 
prettiest  little  bit  of  nature  conceivable,  that  the  mind,  after 
reading  the  verses,  oscillates  between  the  tender  and  inno 
cent  rustic  beauty  of  the  child,  and  the  mystic,  shadowy  sub 
limity  of  death,  rapt  in  a  profound  day-dream  of  delight  and 


THE  NEXT   TURNING. 

else  of  the  mind  is  as  grateful  as  that  of  the  body ; 
and  that  whatever  serves  to  stir  the  thoughts, 

wonder.     How  different,  on  the  other  hand,  and  yet  how 
grand,  is  the  weird,  curse-like  tone  of  Coleridge's  preternat 
ural  ballad  !     It  wants  the  gentle  beauty  of  Wordsworth's 
little  morsel  to  charm  us,  but  it  has,  at  the  same  time,  an  al 
most  Shakspearian  power  about  it  to  awe  us.     Coleridge  car 
ries  the  terror  and  grandeur  of  nature  to  the  very  verge  of 
the  imagination.     He  takes  the  mind,  as  it  were,  to  the  far 
end  of  the  earth  and  ocean — to  the  edge  of  the  great  preci 
pice,  and  gives  us  just  a  peep  of  what  lies  beyond  ;  he  lets 
us  look  down,  so  to  speak,  into  the  dizzy  well  of  infinite 
space.     But  Wordsworth  lifts  us  above  all  natural  things. 
The  spirit  flies  with  him  away  out  of  space  altogether,  and  is 
lost  in  the  lovely  dream-land  of  the  immaterial  world  to 
come.     We  are  set  thinking  of  the  angels,  and  listening  to 
angel  music,  by  the  innocent  words  of  one  who  seems  like  a 
little  earth-angel  herself.     Edgar  Foe's  poem,  on  the  con 
trary,  derives  its  force  from  its  overcasting  the  mind  with  a 
totally  different  feeling.     There  is  a  fine  haunted  sense  left 
upon  the  soul  after  reading  it.     We  have  an  oppression  of 
fatalism,  such  as  will  come  upon  us  (despite  all  our  philoso 
phy)  after  reading  about  death-fetches,  omens,  forebodings, 
and  ugly  dreams  that  seem  to  have  been  fulfilled.     Never 
theless,  despite  the  fine  suggestions  induced  by  the  American 
poet,  the  poem  itself  is  very  thin  and  feeble  after  Coleridge's 
noble  imaginative  work,  and  does  not  admit  of  being  com 
pared  for   a  moment  with  Wordsworth's   graceful   cherub 
strain.     I  have  heard  great  musicians  (such  as  my  old  friend 
and  teacher,  John  Barnett)  say,  that  the  peculiar  charm  of 
Beethoven's  Pastoral  Symphony  is  its  wonderful  suggestivity 
also ;  that  it  lulls  the  finely-attuned  musical  mind  into  a  pas 
toral  reverie,  as  it  were,  carrying  it  away,  and  lapping  it  in 
the  very  bosom  of  nature  itself — now  in  the  fields,  now  in  the 
woods,  and  now  by  the  brook  side  —  and  yet  lighting  it  up 
softly  with  that  reverent  tone  which  the  contemplation  of 
Nature  in  her  quietude,  or  even  in  her  grandeur,  always  in 
duces. 

Mr.  Dickens  has  often  recourse  to  the  suggestive  form  of 
wit,  or  making  a  part  stand  for — or  rather  convey  a  sense  of 
— the  whole,  to  produce  some  of  his  happiest  effects.  Sam 
Weller's  well-known  description  of  the  inmates  of  the  White 
Hart  Inn  in  the  Borough,  by  the  boots  he  had  to  clean,  af 
fords  us  as  graphic  a  picture  of  the  persons  staying  in  the 
tavern  as  an  elaborate  painting  of  the  characters  themselves. 


272  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   PKANKLIN. 

and  give  play  to  the  faculties  within  us,  tends  to 
gladden  and  inspirit  us  as  much  as  the  movement 

"There's  a  pair  of  Hessians  in  13,"  said  he,  in  answer  to  an 
inquiry  as  to  what  people  they  had  in  the  house;  "there's 
two  pair  of  halves  in  the  commercial;  there's  these  here 
painted  tops  in  the  snuggery  inside  the  bar,  and  five  more 
tops  in  the  coffee-room,  besides  a  shoe  as  belongs  to  the  wood 
en  leg  in  No.  6  ;  and  a  pair  of  Wellingtons,  a  good  deal  worn, 
together  with  a  pair  of  lady's  shoes,  in  No.  5." 

Again,  the  Shepherd  with  his  "  Wanities,"  and  Sam's  in 
quiry  as  to  which  "  partickler  wanity  he  liked  the  flavor  on 
best,''  is  another  happy  illustration  of  the  intellectual  charm 
that  lies  in  the  suggestive  process  of  wit  or  humor. 

"  'Wot's  your  usual  tap?'  asked  Sam  of  the  red-nosed 
gentleman. 

"'Oh,  my  dear  young  friend,'  replied  Mr.  Stiggins,  'all 
taps  is  vanities.' 

"  'Well,'  said  Sam,  'I  dessay  they  may  be,  sir  ;  but  vich 
is  your  partickler  wanity.  Vich  wanity  do  you  like  the  flavor 
on  best,  sir?' 

"  '  Oh,  my  dear  young  friend,'  replied  Mr.  Stiggins,  '  I  de 
spise  them  all.  If,'  said  Mr.  Stiggins,  'if  there  is  any  one 
of  them  less  odious  than  another,  it  is  the  liquor  called  rum 
— warm,  my  dear  young  friend,  with  three  lumps  of  sugar  to 
the  tumbler.'  " — Pickwick  Papers,  p.  376. 

Farther,  the  wooden  leg  alluded  to  by  Mrs.  Gamp  is  an 
other  fine  graphic  use  of  the  same  figure.  "As  to  hus 
bands,"  says  the  monthly  nurse,  "there's  a  wooden  leg  gone 
likewise  home  to  its  last  account,  which  for  constancy  of 
walking  into  wine-vaults,  and  never  coming  out  again  'till 
fetched  by  force,  was  quite  as  weak  as  flesh,  if  not  weaker." 

There  is  good,  strong,  humorous  painting  in  the  above  ex 
amples,  though  perhaps  the  touches  are  those  of  the  ten- 
pound  brush  of  the  scene-painter  rather  than  the  delicate 
Shakspearian  strokes — the  fine  sharp  lines  of  the  true  artist. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  preposterous  for  a  class  of  critics  to  pre 
tend  that  the  author  of  "Pickwick,"  "David  Copperficld," 
and  "Martin  Chuzzlewit"  has  no  claim  to  serious  considera 
tion  as  a  writer  of  fiction.  The  man  who  has  created  Sam 
Weller,  Old  Weller,  Mrs.  Gamp,  Squeers,  Pecksniff,  Skim- 
pole,  and  a  host  of  other  beings  —  that  are  as  real  to  every 
reader  throughout  the  country  as  their  own  friends  and  ac 
quaintances,  and,  indeed,  in  many  cases  better,  and  more  in 
timately  known,  even,  than  one's  own  relatives  —  is  surely 
worthy  of  all  acknowledgment  as  the  Shakspeare  of  carica- 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  2T3 

of  our  limbs  themselves.  To  the  delight  of  mere 
mental  exercise,  then,  may  also  be  referred  the 
.charm  that  all  find  in  mere  change  or  variety. 
This  love  of  change,  indeed,  is  so  marlaed  a  feat 
ure  in  human  nature,  that  it  is  perhaps  the  most 
active  of  all  principles  within  us.  It  is  this  which 
in  the  long  succession  of  ever-shifting  scenery, 
characters,  and  circumstances,  constitutes  the 
great  enjoyment  of  traveling ;  this  which  makes 
the  revolutions  of  the  seasons,  the  passage  from 
night  to  day,  the  ever-varying  aspect  of  nature 
throughout  every  minute  indeed  of  the  same  day, 
give  such  lively  beauty  to  the  external  world. 
What  an  exquisite  charm,  for  instance,  is^  there 
in  the  contemplation  of  the  continued  flitting  of 
the  clouds  and  the  moving  shadows  upon  the 
earth  and  water ;  the  bright  bursts  of  sunshine, 

turists.  Let  the  reader  mentally  contrast  the  Nurse  in  "Ro 
meo  and  Juliet"  with  Mrs.  Gamp — old  Weller  with  Falstaff 
—his  son  Sam  with  the  fool  in  "Lear"— or  Pecksniff  with 
Malvolio,  and  he  will  understand  why  the  distinction  is 
drawn.  If  Mr.  Dickens  had  been  but  wise  enough  to  eschew 
the  fatally-facile  trick  of  sentiment ;  if  he  had  never  written 
the  profound  rubbish  of  "The  Chimes,"  nor  the  fatuous 
drivel  of  the  "Cricket  on  the  Hearth,"  nor  the  Adelphi 
rhodomontade  of  the  "Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  et  id  genus,  he 
would,  beyond  doubt,  have  been  as  great  a  literary  genius, 
after  his  kind — as  fine  a  painter  of  the  broadly-marked  char 
acteristics  of  human  life  and  out-of-the-way  places — as  En 
gland  has  seen  for  centuries.  He,  however,  has  too  strong  a 
dash  of  the  "real-domestic-drama"  blood  in  his  veins  to  al 
low  himself  to  do  himself  even  common  justice.  What  is 
true  and  good  in  his  nature  he  must  forever  be  marring  by 
affecting  what  is  false  and  fustian  in  dramatic  art.  If  he 
had  only  left  the  "  Terry  and  Yates"  preparatory  school,  and 
finished  his  education  at  the  Shakspearian  University,  as 
suredly  he  might  have  taken  honors  as  a  "double  first." 
One  always  feels  inclined  to  say  to  the  indiscriminate  ad 
mirers  of  such  a  man  what  Rousseau  told  the  friends  who 
were  lauding  the  ' '  collected  edition"  of  his  works  to  the  skies, 
"  Ha !  they  should  see  the  books  he  hadn't  written." 
S 


274  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

and  the  sudden  overshadowing  of  the  land ;  the 
endless  trooping  of  the  waves  on  and  on  toward 
the  shore,  and  the  everlasting  curling  and  dash 
of  the  billows,  one  after  another,  upon  the  beach ; 
the  capricious  shifting  of  the  swallow's  flight, 
forked  and  swift  as  lightning ;  the  ceaseless  whirl 
of  the  wind-mill  sails,  with  their  long  shadows, 
coursing  each  other  upon  the  sunny  greensward 
below!" 

"  Go  on,  uncle,  go  on ;  I  like  this  very  much," 
interposed  the  youth,  growing  pleased  himself 
with  the  rapid  change  of  thought. 

"The  continued  pulsing  of  the  water-wheel," 
resumed  the  old  man,  "  with  the  white  foam  of 
the  mill-sluice  forever  tearing  along,  like  a  drift 
ing  snow-wreath  in  the  dark  shade  of  the  over 
hanging  trees ;  the  headlong  little  brook,  with  the 
water  scrambling  along  its  rugged  bed,  and  curl 
ing  like  liquid  glass  about  the  edges  of  the  op 
posing  rocks  and  stones ;  the  waterfall,  forever 
descending  in  long  pellucid  lines  of  iridescent 
light,  and  sheets  of  the  thinnest  and  purest  crys 
tal,  and  pounding  the  pool  beneath  into  a  mass 
of  snow ;  the  fountain,  weaving  the  water-threads 
into  forms  of  the  most  exquisite  beauty,  and  curves 
of  the  softest  grace,  as  it  showers  its  million  spark 
ling  jewels  into  the  air  and  on  to  the  ground ;  the 
rich,  ripe  corn-field  undulating  in  the  breeze,  as 
if  it  were  a  lake  of  red  gold;  the  farm-cart,  with 
its  high-piled  load  of  new-mown  hay,  surging  and 
toppling  as  the  team  goes  jingling  along,  rattling 
the  bells  upon  their  collars;  the  mist  at  early 
morn  gradually  rising  from  the  earth,  like  the  lift 
ing  of  an  angel  veil ;  and  the  fitful  crimson  glare 
of  the  blacksmith's  forge,  flashing  up,  with  every 
different  heave  of  the  bellows,  in  the  dusk  of  a 
winter's  evening — all  these,  and  a  thousand  others, 
derive  their  natural  charms  from  that  principle 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  275 


which  makes  change  or  variety — the  change  of 
life  and  action— so  grateful  to  the  minds  of  all. 
Indeed,  the  mere  tedium,  Ben,  that  invariably  ac 
companies  any  thing  bordering  on  monotony ;  the 
overpowering  and  insufferable  weariness  of  one 
unvarying  state  of  mind  when  long  protracted ; 
of  one  and  the  same  object  ever  before  the  senses ; 
of  one  eternal  note  continually  sounded  in  the 
ear,  or  of  one  everlasting  idea  or  subject  present 
ed  to  the  imagination,  as  well  as  the  innate  antip 
athy  we  have  from  what  is  called  prosiness,^or 
what  is  '  boring'  to  us,  or  even  appears  '  slow'- 
all  this  is  sufficient  to  assure  us  that  variation  is 
not  only  a  delight,  but  a  positive  craving  of  our 
intellectual  nature.     It  is  the  intuitive  knowledge 
that  artists  have  of  the  charm  afforded  by  mere 
change,  and  the  tedium  induced  by  monotony,  that 
makes  painters  love  to  'break  up'  long  straight 
lines  and  large  masses  of  color  in  their  pictures, 
and  to  find  picturesqueness  in  the  tumble-down 
and  weather-stained  old  cottages  of  the  peasantry, 
as  well  as  the  shaggy  coat  of  the  jackass,  and  the 
ia«-o-ed  lines  of  rocks  and  ruins.     So,  again,  in  the 
plays  of  Shakspeare,  Ben,  the  more  passionate  and 
beautiful  speeches  and  scenes  are  broken  up  into 
a  hundred  fragments  of  different  feelings,  and 
thus  they  have  not  only  a  wonderful  truth  to  na 
ture  (for  strong  emotion  is  ever  fitful  and  discur 
sive),  but  display  intense  art  in  that  fine  dramatic 
play  and  sparkle  of  the  passions  which  is  derived 
from  the  principle  of  transition  or  rapid  change.* 
*  The  illustrations  to  which  Uncle  Benjamin  more  particu 
larly  alludes  are  the  soliloquy  beginning,  "Oh,  that  this  too, 
too  solid  flesh  would  melt"  (where  one  feeling  is  seldom  sus 
tained  for  more  than  five  consecutive  lines,  the  entire  spec 
being  full  of  disjointed  utterances  and  abrupt  digressions,  as 
well  as  parenthetical  bursts  of  some  passing  passion),  and 
the  first  scene  of  the  third  act  of  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice, 
where  Tubal  brings  Shylock  news  of  his  runaway  daughter, 


2T6  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

Ah !  when  I  was  a  boy,  Ben,  I  would  much  rather 
have  seen  the  mummers  act  'Hamlet'  or  'The 
Merchant  of  Venice'  over  at  Northampton,  than 
have  had  a  plum-cake  any  day.  Farther,  my  boy, 
in  the  tricks  and  transformations  of  conjurors,  and 
even  in  the  pantomimes  of  the  mummers,  it  is  the 
curious  changes  produced  that  render  such  ex 
hibitions  so  delightful  to  youth,  while  in  works 
of  fiction  we  are  charmed  by  the  rapid  succession 
of  incident  and  adventure,  and  the  variety  of 
character  and  scenes  presented  to  the  mind.  In 
conversation,  too,  it  is  the*  exchange  of  opinion 
and  sentiment,  the  cross-fire  of  the  different  ideas 
and  different  views  expressed  by  the  different 
characters  assembled,  the  occasionally  lively  rep 
artee  in  answer  to  some  grave  remarks,  that 
serve  to  make  social  intercourse  one  of  the  special 
delights  of  human  existence.*  Such  are  a  few 

and  also  of  Antonio's  loss  at  sea,  and  in  which  the  Jew  is 
tossed  about  in  a  tempest  of  conflicting  emotions ;  one  mo 
ment  savagely  gloating  over  the  details  of  Antonio's  misfor 
tune,  and  the  next  bursting  into  a  phrensy  at  the  particulars 
of  his  daughter's  flight — the  transitions  from  the  one  feeling 
to  the  other  admitting  not  only  of  the  finest  dramatic  ren 
dering,  but  glittering  with  all  the  richness  and  lustre  of  the 
highest  art. 

*  The  great  master  of  every  form  of  literary  beauty  gives 
a  choice  instance  of  the  charm  we  derive  from  the  grouping 
together  of  a  large  variety  of  circumstances  in  the  speech  of 
Dame  Quickly,  when  she  reminds  Sir  John  Falstaff  of  his 
promise  to  marry  her,  and  cites  a  number  of  minute  con 
comitant  incidents  in  order  to  overwhelm  him  with  the  truth 
of  her  assertion,  and  prevent  the  possibility  of  any  pretense 
of  oblivion  on  his  part. 

"Falstaff.  What  is  the  gross  sum  I  owe  thee? 

"  Hostess.  Marry,  if  thou  wert  an  honest  man,  thyself,  and 
the  money  too.  Thou  didst  swear  to  me  upon  a  parcel-gilt 
goblet,  sitting  in  my  Dolphin  chamber,  at  the  round  table, 
by  a  sea-coal  fire,  upon  Wednesday  in  Whitsun-week,  when 
the  prince  broke  thy  head  for  liking  his  father  to  a  singing- 
man  of  Windsor — thou  didst  swear  to  me  then,  as  I  was 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  277 

of  the  pleasures  of  mental  exercise,  lad ;  and  you 
will  see  by-and-by  that  as  the  irritability  of  the 

washing  thy  wound,  to  many  me,  and  make  me  'my  lady,' 
thy  wife.  Canst  thou  deny  it  ?  Did  not  goodwife  Keech, 
the  butcher's  wife,  come  in  then,  and  call  me  Gossip  Quickly  ? 
coming  in  to  borrow  a  mess  of  vinegar ;  telling  us  she  had  a 
good  dish  of  prawns,  whereby  thou  didst  desire  to  eat  some ; 
whereby  I  told  thee  they  were  ill  for  a  green  wound  ?  And 
didst  thou  not,  when  she  was  gone  down  stairs,  desire  me  to 
be  no  more  so  familiarity  with  such  poor  people,  saying  that 
ere  long  they  should  call  me  madam  ?  And  didst  thou  not 
kiss  me,  and  bid  me  fetch  thee  thirty  shillings  ?  I  put  thee 
now  to  thy  book-oath  ;  deny  it  if  thou  canst." — SECOND  PART 
HENRY  IV.,  Act  II.,  Scene  1. 

How  beautifully  fit,  too,  are  many  of  these  little  picturesque 
"surroundings,"  and  how  delicately  are  they  thrown  in — 
e.  g.,  "  the  parcel-gilt  goblet, "  ( '  the  Dolphin  chamber, "  ' '  the 
singing-man  of  Windsor,"  "the  mess  of  vinegar,"  "the  dish 
of  prawns,  whereby  thou  didst  desire  to  eat  some  ;"  then  the 
reference  to  the  "  wound"  is  a  fine  touch,  as  is  the  desire  that 
she  should  be  no  more  so  familiarity  with  such  poor  people. 
But  the  grandest  stroke  of  all  among  the  long  list  of  accusa 
tions  lies  at  the  end — so  exquisitely  true  is  it  to  Falstaff' s 
character.  ' '  Didst  thou  not  kiss  me, "  adds  the  dame,  ' '  and 
bid  me  fetch  thee  thirty  shillings?"  This  is  a  little  morsel 
of  artistic  humor  that  has  perhaps  never  been  equaled,  and 
certainly  never  transcended. 

How  beautifully  marked  and  various  again  is  the  group 
of  concemitants  in  Dame  Quickly's  description  of  Falstaff's 
death ! 

"  'A  made  a  finer  end,  and  went  away,  an  it  had  been  any 
christom  child ;  'a  parted  even  just  between  twelve  and  one, 
e'en  at  the  turning  of  the  tide ;  for  after  I  saw  him  fumble 
with  the  sheets,  and  play  with  the  flowers,  and  smile  upon 
his  fingers'  ends,  I  knew  there  was  but  one  way ;  for  his  nose 
Avas  as  sharp  as  a  pen,  and  'a  babbled  of  green  fields." 

^  Here  the  "smiling  upon  the  fingers'  ends"  is  a  wonderful 
bit  of  death-painting;  the  fumbling  with  the  sheets,  too,  is 
finely  illustrative  of  the  state  of  mental  vacuity  at  such  a 
time ;  and  when  all  these  exquisitely-artistic  associations  are 
put  together — the  christom  child — the  turning  of  the  tide — the 
sheet-fumbling — the  flower-playing — the  finger-tip  scanning 
— the  nose  sharp  as  a  pen — and  the  babbling  of  green  jftelds, 
what  play  is  there  in  the  transition  from  one  association  to 
the  other — and  yet  what  a  choice  and  cunning  picture  it  is  1 


2T8  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

young  muscles  naturally  sobers  down,  and  the  in 
tellect  becomes  more  and  more  developed  with 

what  fine  variety  in  the  color — still  how  soft  and  sombre  the 
coloring !  and,  above  all,  how  truthful,  and  more  than  truth 
ful,  how  typical  the  tone  of  the  whole ! 

In  Kabelais,  again,  may  often  be  found  curious  grotesque 
instances  of  the  amusement  that  is  connected  with  the  asso 
ciation  of  a  number  of  diverse  particulars  with  one  subject, 
though  here  the  charm  is  more  verbal  than  ideal,  e.  g. : 

11  Master  Janotus  ....  transported  himself  to  the  lodging 
of  Gargantua,  driving  before  him  three  red-muzzled  beadles, 
and  dragged  after  him  five  or  six  artless  masters  all  thor 
oughly  bedraggled  with  the  mire  of  the  streets — prattling 
gabblers,"  proceeds  the  author,  "licorous  gluttons,  freckled 
bitters  (beggars),  mangy  rascals,  lubberly  louts,  cozening 
foxes,  sycophant  varlets,  scurvy  sneaksbies,  fondling  fops, 
idle  lusks,  scoffing  braggards,  jobbernol  goosecaps,  woodcock 
slangams,  noddipeak  simpletons." 

But  the  delight  afforded  by  mere  literary  variety  or  change 
in  the  current  of  thought  is  often  dexterously  brought  about 
by  Charles  Lamb,  who  was  perhaps  better  skilled  in  the  use 
of  the  parenthesis  than  any  English  writer  that  ever  lived. 
In  a  true  artist's  hands,  of  course,  the  parenthesis,  or  even 
that  modern  off-shoot — the  dash — is  the  means  of  what  land 
scape  painters  call  "breaking  up"  lines  and  masses;  it  is  a 
kind  of  literary  "shunting,"  as  it  were,  or  temporary  shift 
ing  of  the  train  of  thought  on  to  another  line,  and,  finely 
used,  gives  the  mind  one  of  those  slight  jogs  or  jolts  that 
serve  to  wake  up  the  faculties,  and  which  constitute  perhaps 
the  chief  sense  we  have  of  movement  in  mere  passive  exer 
cise.  The  following  example  is  from  Elia's  "Complaint  as 
to  the  Decay  of  Beggars  in  the  Metropolis:" 

"A  clerk  in  the  Bank  was  surprised  with  the  announce 
ment  of  a  five  hundred  pound  legacy  left  him  by  a  person 
whose  name  he  was  a  stranger  to.  It  seems  that  in  his  daily 
morning  walks  from  Peckham  (or  some  village  thereabouts), 
where  he  lived,  to  his  office,  it  had  been  his  practice  for  the 
last  twenty  years  to  drop  his  halfpenny  duly  into  the  hat  of 
some  blind  Bartimeus,  that  sat  begging  along  by  the  way 
side  in  the  Borough.  The  good  old  beggar  recognized  his 
daily  benefactor  by  the  voice  only ;  and  when  he  died,  left 
all  the  amassings  of  his  alms  (that  had  been  half  a  century, 
perhaps,  in  the  accumulating)  to  his  old  Bank  friend.  Was 
this  a  story  to  purse  up  people's  hearts  and  pennies  against 
giving  an  alms  to  the  blind,  or  not  rather  a  beautiful  moral 


THE    NEXT   TURNING.  279 

advancing  manhood,  the  athletic  sports  and  games 
of  youth  pass  gradually  into  the  mental  diversion 

of  well-directed  chanty  on  the  one  part,  and  noble  gratitude 
upon  the  other  ? 

'I  sometimes  wish  I  had  been  that  Bank  clerk. 

'  I  seem  to  remember  a  poor  old  grateful  kind  of  creature 
blinking,  and  looking  up  with  his  no  eyes  in  the  sun. 

•  Is  it  possible  I  could  have  steeled  my  purse  against  him  ? 
'  Perhaps  I  had  no  small  change. 

;  Reader,  do  not  be  frightened  at  the  hard  words  imposi 
tion,  imposture.  Give,  and  ask  no  questions:  'Cast  thy  bread 
upon  the  waters.'  Some  have  unawares  (like  this  Bank  clerk) 
entertained  angels." 

The  parenthesis  in  the  last  line  is  set  like  a  jewel  with  the 
nicest  art,  serving,  as  the  little  hard  bit  of  crystal  truth  does, 
to  assure  the  mind  that  the  beggar  and  the  angels  are  some 
what  kin. 

Mr.  Dickens,  too,  often  uses  the  interposed  sentence  be 
tween  dashes  very  adroitly.  In  the  following  choice  little 
bit  from  the  "Pickwick  Papers,"  the  interjected  sentence  is 
not  only  finely  discursive,  but  so  exquisitely  suggestive  of  the 
affected  humility  of  the  red-nosed  shepherd's  character  as  to 
be  an  admirable  stroke  of  art. 

"  Sam  felt  very  strongly  disposed  to  give  the  reverend  gen 
tleman  something  to  groan  for,  but  he  repressed  his  inclina 
tion,  and  merely  asked  (with  reference  to  old  Mr.  Wellcr), 
'  What's  the  old  'un  been  up  to  now  ?' 

'"Up  to,  indeed !'  said  Mrs.  Weller ;  'oh,  he  has  a  hard 
heart.  Night  after  night  does  this  excellent  man — don't 
frown,  Mr.  Stiggins ;  I  WILL  say  you  are  an  excellent  man — 
come  and  sit  here  for  hours  together,  and  it  has  not  the  least 
effect  upon  him.' " — Pickwick  Papers,  p.  218. 

Again,  the  little  domestic  interpolation  as  to  the  price  of 
red  kidney  potatoes,  in  the  evidence  of  Mrs.  Cluppins,  in  the 
celebrated  trial-scene  of  the  same  unctuous  book,  is  a  very 
happy  touch,  admirably  characteristic  as  it  is  of  the  house 
wife,  and  yet  deliciously  comic  from  the  very  inappropriate- 
ness  of  the  piece  of  household  information  conveyed  to  "my 
lord  and  jury"  by  the  lady,  who  found  such  difficulty  in 
"composing  herself"  on  her  entry  into  the  witness-box. 

"  'What  were  you  doing  in  the  back  room,  ma'am?'  in 
quired  the  little  judge. 

I'  'My  lord  and  jury,'  said  Mrs.  Cluppins,  with  interesting 
agitation,  'I  will  not  deceive  you.' 

"  'You  had  better  not,  ma'am,'  said  the  little  judge. 


280  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FBANKLIN. 

of  books,  meditation,  and  converse ;  nevertheless, 
it  is  still  the  same  love  of  exercise  that  makes  the 
occupation  delightful  in  both  cases,  for  it  is  this 
which  gives  its  special  charm  not  only  to  the 
physical  pastime,  but  to  the  intellectual  amuse 
ment  as  well." 

THE   PLEASUEES    OF   MENTAL   EXCITEMENT. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  next,  uncle?" 
asked  little  Ben. 

"  Why,  next  we  have  to  explain  the  pleasures 
of  mental  excitement,"  was  the  answer. 

"  But,  uncle,  you  did  the  pleasures  of  ease  and 
satisfaction  after  the  pleasures  of  exercise  last 
time,"  suggested  the  lad,  "  and  why  don't  you  go 
on  as  you  began  ?" 

"  Because,  Ben,  here  the  one  subject  naturally 
passes  into  the  other,"  returned  Uncle  Benjamin, 
"  and  in  the  other  case  it  did  not.  You  see,  the 
love  of  change — the  love  of  those  gentle  and 
gradual  transitions  of  mind  (which  are  all  that  is 
meant  by  the  term  mental  exercise)  is  intimately 
connected  with  the  pleasure  that  we  derive  from 
the  more  violent  alterations  in  the  natural  course 
of  our  thoughts,  and  such  violent  alterations  are 
mainly  concerned  in  producing  that  state  which 
is  called '  mental  excitement.'  Indeed,  excitement 
is  but  an  exaggerated  form  of  exercise  in  the 
mind,  and,  intellectually  speaking,  requires  only 
an  exaggerated  form  of  the  same  conditions  to 
produce  it.  Ordinary  change  merely  exercises 
the  mind,  but  extraordinary  transition,  you  will 
find,  inordinately  excites  it.  To  produce  that 

"'I  was  there,'  resumed  Mrs.  Cluppins,  'onbeknown  to 
Mrs.  Bardell.  I  had  been  out  with  a  little  basket,  gentle 
men,  to  buy  three  pound  of  red  kidney  purtaties — which  was 
three  pound  tuppence  ha'penny — when  I  see  Mrs.  Bardell's 
street-door  on  the  jar.'  " — Pickwick  Papers,  p.  283. 


THE    NEXT   TUBNING. 

change  or  play  of  thought  which  constitutes  men 
tal  exercise,  nothing  but  a  succession  of  slightly 
different  perceptions  is  necessary ;  but  to  throw 
the  mind  into  a  state  of  excitement  intellectually, 
it  is  essential  that  some  widely  different  impres 
sion,  or  even  one  that  is  diametrically  opposite 
from  our  previous  expectations,  should  be  made 
upon  us.     Indeed,  the  difference  must  be  so  mark 
ed  as  to  produce  a  startling  effect  upon  us ;  and 
it  is  the  love  of  these  startling  effects,  and  the 
pleasure  we  derive  from  the  extra-vividness  of 
the  impressions  produced  by  them,  which  consti 
tutes  the  great  charm  that  many  find  in  the  prin 
ciple  of  mental  excitement.     The  delight,  for  ex 
ample,  that  is  felt  in  contemplating — at  a  distance 
— the  extraordinary  phenomena  of  nature — the 
grandeur  of  the  wild  rage  of  the  storm ;  the  con 
vulsive  throes   of  the  heaving  earthquake ;  the 
mighty  fountain  of  fire  poured  forth  by  the  burn 
ing  volcano,  and  the  crimson  cascades  of  liquid 
lava  streaming,  like  the  earth's  hot  blood,  down 
the  mountain  sides ;  the  jeweled  stalactite  caverns 
of  the  world,  their  roofs  glittering  with  their  deep 
fringe  of  pendent  crystals,  as  though  they  were 
huge  petrified  icicles ;  the  giant  caves,  with  their 
monster  columnar  rocks,  that  are  like  the  council- 
halls  of  devils ;  the  immense  icebergs  floating  in 
the  arctic  seas,  and  lurking  there,  like  tremendous 
white  bears,  ready  to  crush  the  bones  of  any  stray 
vessel  that  may  chance  to  fall  within  their  ada 
mantine  grip ;  the  thick  daylight-darkness  of  the 
eclipse,  that  affrights  the  cattle  in  the  fields ;  the 
ominous-looking  fire-mist  of  the  comet ;  the  flam 
ing  dart  of  the  falling  star,  that  seems  to  streak 
the  heavens  with  a  line  of  fire  as  it  descends ;  the 
never-ending  flood  of  the  cataract,  with  its  flashes 
of  silver  lightning  and  roar  of  liquid  thunder — 
these  are  the  natural  stimulants  of  the   innate 


282  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

wonder  of  our  souls,  and  which,  awful  as  they 
may  seem  in  all  the  terror  of  their  reality,  yet 
become  the  grandest  and  loveliest  objects  when 
ideally  regarded  by  us.  It  is  the  same  mental 
propensity  that  leads  the  more  sluggish  intellect 
ual  natures  among  mankind  to  find  delight  in 
those  gross  monstrosities,  and  wild  freaks  of  na 
ture,  which  are  usually  found  in  shows  at  fairs, 
and  which  act  as  drams  upon  the  languid  current 
of  thought  and  imagination  among  the  vulgar. 
Again,  it  is  the  natural  delight  of  man  in  wonders 
and  marvels  that  makes  us  all,  more  or  less,  have 
a  trace  of  the  grandmother  and  the  child  forever 
stamped  upon  our  mind;  finding,  as  we  do,  a 
strange  winsomeuess  in  those  nursery  tales  of 
giants  and  ogres,  fairies  and  pixies,  hobgoblins 
and  bogies,  that  we  hear  almost  in  our  cradle, 
as  well  as  in  those  mystic  stories  of  ghosts  and 
death-fetches,  presentiments,  omens,  and  witch 
ery,  which  are  only  the  hazy  foreshadowings  of 
that  strange  supernatural  life  and  sense  which  we 
must  carry  with  us  to  our  grave." 

"  How  beautiful  it  is,  uncle !  Do  you  know,  I 
fancy  I  can  just  begin  to  see  now  a  little  bit  into 
my  own  nature  ?"  exclaimed  the  boy,  in  a  more 
serious  tone  than  he  had  yet  spoken. 

"  There  is  but  little  light  yet,  Ben,"  returned 
the  old  man.  "  At  best,  we  are  but  prisoners  in  a 
dark  dungeon,  and  we  must  look,  and  look  for  a 
long  time  into  our  own  souls,  before  we  can  dis 
cern  any  thing  in  the  obscurity.  Still,  with  long 
looking,  the  mental  eye  becomes  at  last  acclimated 
as  it  were  to  the  darkness,  and  begins  to  make  out 
first  one  little  object,  and  then  another.  But  we 
want  the  right  of  heaven,  lad — the  light  of  heaven! 
— to  illuminate  the  insect  before  even  the  highest 
microscopic  vision  can  see  it  clearly.  We  mustn't 
wander,  however,  from  our  purpose.  Now  not 


THE   NEXT   TUBNING. 

only  does  our  love  of  extra-vivid  impressions,  Ben, 
make  us  find  delight  in  the  marvelous  as  well  as 
in  the  wonders  of  the  world,  and  also  in  the  ex 
traordinary,  or  even  strange  phenomena  of  nature, 
but  it  causes  us  likewise  to  derive  a  special  pleas 
ure  from  the  astonishing  and  surprising  events 
and  objects  in  life,  nature,  and  art  too.  When  any 
thing  occurs  or  is  presented  to  us  that  is  entirely 
different  from  what  we  have  expected,  we  are  as 
tonished;  and  when  it  coirfes  upon  us  utterly  un 
expected,  we  are  surprised.  If  any  one,  for  ex 
ample,  were  to  come  behind  you  at  this  moment 
in  the  dark" — and,  as  the  uncle  said  the  words, 
the  boy  looked  round  half  frightened,  so  as  to  as 
sure  himself  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  such 
an  event  occurring  to  him — "and  to  seize  you 
suddenly  by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  you  would  ex 
perience  a  sensation  something  like  to  an  electric 
shock  all  through  your  frame,  and  which  would 
convulse  for  the  moment  every  limb  in  your  body. 
And  then,  if  you  were  to  turn  round  and  discover 
that  it  was  only  brother  Nehemiah  or  Jabez,  aft 
er  all,  who  had  found  out  where  you  were,  and 
crept  softly  up  to  you,  so  as  to  have  a  bit  of  fun 
with  you,  why  then,  lad,  the  alarm  would  cease  in 
an  instant,  and  you  would  fall  to  laughing  at  what 
is  termed  the  '  agreeable  surprise*  you  had  expe 
rienced." 

The  little  fellow,  indeed,  smiled  at  the  mere  im 
agination  of  such  an  incident  occurring  to  him. 

"  Again,  if  you  were  to  go  over  to  England,  say, 
and  suddenly  discover,  in  the  person  of  the  lord- 
mayor  of  London,  let  us  suppose,  your  own  long- 
lost  brother  Josiah,  who  ran  away  to  sea  in  oppo 
sition  to  his  father's  will,  why  then,  of  course,  you 
would  be  mightily  and  agreeably  astonished  to 
find  the  outcast,  who,  you  fancy,  is  now  leading  a 
half-savage  life  somewhere  in  the  backwoods,  had 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

become  transmogrified*  into  the  first  civic  func 
tionary  of  the  first  city  in  the  world." 

"So  I  should,  of  course,"  interjected  the  lad. 

"  Now  these  feelings  of  surprise  and  astonish 
ment,  Ben,"  the  uncle  went  on,  "  are  feelings  that 
serve  to  give  intense  vividness  to  the  objects  or 
circumstances  which  produce  them;  that  is  to  say, 
they  throw  the  mind  into  a  state  of  violent  ex 
citement  for  a  time,  which  is  very  different  from 
the  gentle  stimulus  produced  by  the  mere  exer 
cise  of  it,  and  this  violent  excitement,  of  course, 
tends  to  impress  the  causes  of  the  emotion  with 
increased  force  upon  the  brain.  They  are  true 
mental  stimulants  suddenly  giving  increased  vig 
or  to  all  the  faculties  and  sensibilities  of  our  na 
ture —  like  wine,  or  even  opium — and  if  indulged 
in  to  excess,  they  tend  at  last,  like  the  physical 
stimulants  themselves,  to  enfeeble  rather  than 
strengthen  the  natural  powers.  Thus,  then,  we 
come  at  the  reason  why  the  highly-spiced  works 
of  fiction  and  the  tricky  dramas  of  the  stage 
(though  it's  many  a  long  year  now  since  I  saw 
any  of  them)  are  tilled  with  extravagant  incidents 
and  startling  surprises,  as  well  as  such  extraordi 
nary  characters  as  are  the  mere  caricatures  of  hu 
man  frivolities  and  singularities  rather  than  types 
of  human  passion.  These  productions  are  not 
only  contemptible  as  works  of  art,  but  baneful  to 
healthy  mental  digestion — that  digestion  which  is 
wanted  to  exert  itself  upon  less  fiery  and  more 
solid  food,  and  has  often  to  put  up  with  the  dry 
and  hard  cud  of  philosophy,  which  requires  to  be 

*  The  young  reader  should  be  warned  that  the  common 
colloquial  expression  here  made  use  of  by  Uncle  Benjamin 
is  a  vulgarism.  A  little  reflection  will  show  that  there  is  no 
such  root  as  '•'•mogrifif  existing  in  any  language.  The  term 
is  evidently  an  ignorant  corruption  of  the  word  "trcmsmod- 
ify, "  to  change  the  ?node,  or  form  of  a  thing. 


THE    NEXT   TURNING.  285 

chewed  over  and  over  again,  lad,  before  it  can  be 
swallowed — such  romantic  trash,  I  say,  is  as  det 
rimental  to  sound  taste  and  mental  sanity  as  your 
hot  peppers,  sharp  sauces,  and  your  drops  of  raw 
spirits  are  destructive  of  the  natural  functions  of 
the  stomach.  Nevertheless,  lad,  though  the  feel 
ings  of  surprise  and  astonishment  go  to  make  up 
the  glitter  and  finery  of  trashy  and  extravagant 
art,  they  are,  after  all,  in  a  subdued  form,  the 
great  enliveners  of  mental  existence,  and  serve  to 
add  the  finishing  stroke,  when  touched  with  true 
artistic  delicacy,  to  all  works  and  objects  of  high 
beauty.  They  give,  as  it  were,  that  gloss  and 
lustre  of  varnish  to  the  picture  which  brings  out 
all  the  colors  with  finer  force  —  the  polish  and 
sparkle  of  many  facets  to  the  jewels — the  sunlight 
that  at  once  brightens  and  warms  up  the  land 
scape.  The  feeling  of  admiration,  indeed,  which 
all  true  beauty  inspires,  has  so  much  of  wonder 
and  astonishment  in  its  nature,  that  one  can  not 
but  feel  that  the  loveliness,  even  of  perfection  it 
self,  would  be  only  a  kind  of  platonic  loveliness  if 
it  did  not  at  once  astonish  us  with  its  transcend 
ent  grace,  and  set  us  wondering  at  the  marvel- 
ousness  of  its  consummate  excellence.  The  beau 
ty  of  nature  and  high  art  has  always  something 
extraordinary  about  it.  Though  we  have  looked 
upon  the  magnificent  glory  of  the  clouds,  and 
gazed  upon  the  very  sumptuousness  of  gold  and 
crimson  with  which  the  sun  drapes  the  heavens 
and  tints  the  air  at  morning  and  evening  some 
hundreds  of  times  in  our  lives,  yet  there  is  noth 
ing  old  and  familiar  about  the  sight :  the  grand 
eur  of  to-day  is  not  the  worn-out  grandeur  of  yes 
terday  ;  for  the  scene  is  still  so  entirely  novel  in 
the  grouping  of  the  forms  of  the  clouds,  the  splen 
dor  and  tone  of  the  colors,  and  the  very  tint  of 
the  pinky  light  itself,  that  we  can  not  but  wonder 


28G  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FKANKLIN. 

and  wonder  on,  day  after  day,  even  till  we  gaze 
at  it  for  the  last  time  of  all.  So,  too,  with  the 
works  of  high  art.  It  is  the  peculiar  quality  of 
all  force,  lad,  that  there  is  no  principle  of  decay  in 
it  (a  ball  once  made  to  move  would  keep  moving 
on  to  all  eternity,  Ben,  if  there  were  nothing  to 
stop  it),  and  it  is  the  same  with  the  force  of  im 
mortal  genius.  It  is  at  once  self-sustaining  and 
indestructible.  A  truly  grand  work  is  young, 
fresh,  and  vigorous  to  the  end  of  all  time.  Study 
it  never  so  often — scan  it  till  the  mind  seems  to 
know  every  fragment  of  it  as  well  as  the  mother 
knows  every  little  lineament  of  her  infant's  face, 
and  yet  come  to  it  again,  and  a  new  world  of 
beauty  and  wonder  will  still  burst  out  once  more 
from  the  well-thumbed  page  or  old  familiar  can 
vas,  even  as  that  mother  can  see  the  well-scanned 
face  of  her  infant  light  up  with  a  new  expression 
with  each  new  smile. 

Young  Ben  was  mute  with  the  contemplation 
naturally  begotten  by  the  charm  of  his  uncle's 
theme,  and  he  sat  thinking  in  silence  of  the  great 
books  he  had  read  over  and  over  again — of  old 
John  Bunyan's  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  and  But 
ler's  "  Hudibras,"  and  Milton's  mighty  epic,  and 
Shakspeare's  wondrous  plays  (Uncle  Ben  had  had 
a  hard  fight  with  Josiah  to  allow  the  boy  to  read 
the  plays),  and,  last  of  all,  of  De  Foe's  simple 
"  Robinson  Crusoe"  —  and  thinking,  too,  how 
strange  it  was  that  he  should  never  tire  of  read 
ing  them,  while  there  were  others  at  which  he 
could  not  look,  after  he  had  had  his  fill  of  the 
mere  story  contained  in  them,  even  though  his 
mind  had  traveled  never  so  pleasantly  over  the 
pages  at  the  time. 

"In  wit  as  well  as  beauty,"  added  the  old  man, 
"  it  is  the  gay  surprise,  the  happy  astonishment 
begotten  by  the  unexpectedness  of  the  lively  rep- 


THE    NEXT   TURNING.  187 

artee  or  sally — of  the  quaint  idea  or  odd  simile — 
or  of  the  choice  grotesque  expression  that  tickles, 
while  it  startles  us  with  the  novelty,  and  yet  with 
the  queerness  and  aptness  of  the  thought.*  In 

*  That  curious  style  of  "funniment,"  called  Americanisms, 
also  depends  upon  the  pleasure  the  mind  finds  in  extremes 
for  the  greater  part  of  its  amusement.  For  instance,  when 
we  are  told  that  "there  is  a  nigger  woman  in  South  Caro 
lina  who  has  a  child  so  black  that  charcoal  makes  a  white 
mark  upon  it,"  the  fancy  is  carried  almost  to  the  very  verge 
of  common  sense,  and  the  effect  produced  is  a  vain  endeavor 
to  comprehend  the  incomprehensible,  in  connection  with  a 
mean  instead  of  a  grand  idea — the  same  as  if  we  were  trying 
to  realize  a  funny  infinity.  Again,  the  peculiar  blunders 
called  "bulk"  axe  funny  to  us,  because  the  mind  contrasts 
the  meaning  with  the  sense  expressed  ;  as,  for  example,  when 
we  are  told  that  an  Irish  gentleman  had  a  small  room  full 
of  pictures,  which  he  was  about  to  show  to  a  number  of  his 
friends  at  the  same  time,  but  on  finding  that  they  all  made 
a  rush  to  the  door  at  once,  he  cried  out,  as  he  endeavored  to 
restrain  the  more  impatient,  "Faith,  gintlcmin,  if  ye  will  go 
in  together,  it'll  nivir  hould  the  half  of  ye :"  here  we  know 
well  enough  what  the  Irish  gentleman  meant,  but  this  is  so 
different  from  what  he  really  said,  and  the  contradiction  of 
all  his  guests  going  into  a  room  that  wouldn't  hold  half  of 
them — all  this  is  so  marked  that  it  is  impossible  not  to  laugh 
at  the  inconsistency  under  such  circumstances.  Farther, 
there  are  the  verbal  blunders— those  odd  mistakes  of  words 
— which  are  styled  "  Malapropisms, "  after  Sheridan's  cele 
brated  character  in  "The  Rivals."  It  is  this  form  of  wit 
which  delights  us  so  much  with  the  letters  of  Winifred  Jen 
kins,  by  Smollett,  or  those  of  Mrs.  Kamsbottom  by  Theodore 
Hook,  and  others  by  Thomas  Hood ;  for  who  can  help  smil 
ing  when  they  hear  an  old  citizen  extol  the  virtues  of  ' '  in 
dustry,  perseverance,  and  acidity,"  or  a  vulgar  old  dame 
declare  that  a  bright,  dry  winter's  day  is  "  fine  embracing 
weather?"  Moreover,  there  are  the  inconsistencies  of  those 
intentional  mistakes  which  belong  to  the  class  of  "  Anach 
ronisms,"  and  where  the  small  modicum  of  fun  lies,  as  in 
pur  modern  burlesques,  in  putting  Minerva  into  blue  stock 
ings  and  blue  spectacles,  and  giving  Mars  a  shell  jacket  and 
Piccadilly  whiskers,  or  making  Diana  smoke  cigars  and  talk 
slang ;  or  else  it  is  expressed  in  that  strange  and  ingenious 
nonsense  which  consists  of  a  kind  of  anachronous  farago, 


288  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

the  anecdote  of  the  dull  and  prosy  clergyman,  who 
was  reproving  his  flock  for  their  habit  of  going  to 
sleep  during  the  sermon,  and  who  sought  to  shame 
them  by  reminding  them  that  even  Jimmy,  the 
wretched  idiot  in  the  free  seats,  could  keep  him 
self  awake ;  whereupon  a  wag  returned  that  '  if 
Jimmy  hadn't  been  a  wretched  idiot,  he  would 
have  been  asleep  too' — in  this  anecdote,  of  course, 
it  is  the  unexpectedness  of  the  retort — the  sharp 
backward  cut  of  the  foil,  that  startles  us  as  much 
as  any  thing.  So,  too,  in  that  pinchbeck  kind  of 
wit  called  punning,  we  are  taken  aback  by  the 
double  meaning  of  the  term  on  which  the  pun  is 

where  the  several  events  of  histoiy  have  been,  as  it  were, 
rattled  together  in  some  droll  kaleidoscopic  fancy,  and  made 
to  tumble  into  the  queerest  possible  forms.  Akin  to  these 
intentional  anachronisms,  or  "cross-times,"  as  it  were,  are 
the  "cross-readings,"  or  those  curious  jumbles  of  sense  that 
either  startle  us  to  laughter  with  the  oddness  of  the  ideas 
that  are  thus  brought  into  juxtaposition,  or  else  set  us  won 
dering  at  the  ingenuity  of  the  arrangement.  There  are  a 
few  specimens  of  this  form  of  fun  preserved  in  the  "Neiv 
Foundling  Hospital  for  Wit,"  the  principal  of  which  are  ex 
tracts  from  the  old  "Public  Advertizer,"  and  the  drollery  of 
which  consists  in  the  odd  associations  that  are  frequently 
brought  about  by  reading  a  newspaper  across  two  adjoining 
columns  rather  than  down  each  column  singly  in  the  usual 
manner,  e.  g. : 

Last  night  the  Princess  Royal  was  baptized—  Mary  a?JajMollHnckett,a?tajBlaclcMoll. 
Yesterday  the  new  L'd-mayor  was  sworn  in —  afterward  tossed  and  goredseveral  persons. 

Again,  in  the  double  letter  attributed  to  Cardinal  Riche 
lieu  (which,  when  read  in  single  columns,  expresses  one 
sense,  and  when  read  across  has  a  totally  different  significa 
tion),  there  is  enough  art  to  make  us  marvel  at  the  skill,  and 
yet  such  a  sense  of  labor  with  it  all,  that  our  admiration  is 
alloyed  with  the  idea  that  it  was  hardly  worth  while  taking 
such  pains,  as  the  author  must,  to  compass  so  trifling  an  end, 
to  wit : 

Sir,— 

Mons.  Compeigne,  a  Savoyard  by  birth,  a    Friar    of    the  order    of   St.  Benedict, 

is   the    man    who   will  p'resent  to    you  as     his     passport    to     your    protection, 

this    letter.     He    is    one    of    the    most  discreet,    the     wisest,     and      the     least 

meddling  persons  I  have  ever  known,  or  have  had  the  pleasure  to  converse  with, 
etc.            etc.            etc.  etc.  etc.  etc. 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  289 

made,  and  thus  pleasantly  startled  again  by  the 
use  of  the  word  in  a  different  sense  from  what  we 
expected.  When  King  Charles  the  Second,  for 
instance,  bade  Rochester  make  a  joke,  and  Roches 
ter  asked  the  monarch  to  name  a  subject,  the 
ready  reply  of  the  wit,  on  the  king's  naming  him 
self,  that  his  majesty  could  not  possibly  be  a  "  sub 
ject"  startles  us  slightly,  when  we  first  hear  it, 
from  the  widely  different  sense  given  to  the  word 
subject  itself.  Moreover,  it  is  to  the  vivid  impres 
sions  produced  by  widely  different  and  diametric 
ally  opposite  ideas  and  objects,  when  made  to 
succeed  one  another  immediately  in  the  mind,  that 
such  lively  delight  is  found  in  the  principle  of  con 
trast,  as  I  before  explained  to  you,  lad,  though  then 
I  enforced  upon  you  the  charms  that  belong  prin 
cipally  to  contrasted  physical  objects.  In  art, 
however,  the  extremes  of  contrast  are  often  ef 
fective  for  a  while,  though  your  mere  black  and 
white  style  of  painting  generally  belongs  to  that 
coarser  kind  of  effect  which  is  requisite  to  enliven 
duller  perceptions  and  tastes.  The  figure  of  an 
tithesis,  nevertheless,  is  always  brilliant  in  literary 
composition ;  for  there  is  a  natural  sparkle  in  the 
collocation  of  any  two  directly  opposite  ideas,  as, 
for  instance,  in  the  two  terms  of  life — the  cradle 
and  the  grave ;  the  two  extremes  of  human  emo 
tions — smiles  and  tears ;  the  two  opposite  types  of 
wealth  and  want — Dives  and  Lazarus;  of  worldly 
power  and  helplessness  —  the  monarch  and  the 
slave.*  Again,  as  the  high  lights  of  a  picture  are 
always  in  the  foreground,  and  the  greatest  depth 
of  shade  to  be  found  there  too,  so  even  Shakspeare 
himself  often  resorts  to  the  principle  of  contrast 
to  throw  up  the  brilliances  of  some  of  his  fore- 

*  The  delight  that  some  find  in  paradoxes,  and  even  in 
what  the  vulgar  will  call ' '  contrayriness, "  may  be  referred  to 
.the  same  principle. 

T 


290  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

most  characters.  Thus,  in  '  Romeo  and  Juliet,' 
the  old  nurse  is  an  exquisite  foil  to  bring  out  all 
the  lustre  and  richness  of  the  young,  ripe  love  of 
Juliet ;  and  even  in  the  contemplativeness  of  the 
old  friar,  sworn  to  celibacy  and  the  life  of  an  as 
cetic,  and  yet  who  is  sufficiently  human  to  delight 
in  matrimony  and  the  beautiful  world  about  him, 
what  a  charming  set-off  have  we  to  the  hot-blood 
ed  young  Romeo,  now  moody  in  woods,  and  now 
burning  with  the  flame  of  his  first  real  passion ; 
and  what  a  lively  relief,  again,  is  the  merry  and 
voluble  light-heartedness  of  the  fairy-spirited  Mer- 
cutio  even  to  Romeo  himself!  Moreover,  in '  Lear,' 
what  exquisite  contrasted  force  is  there  in  those 
extremes  of  demention  —  the  two  opposite  and 
widely  distant  verges  of  mental  eccentricity — 
shown  in  the  wild  madness  of  the  king  and  the 
cunning  foolery  of  the  fool !  And  so  in  '  Hamlet' 
we  have  the  touching  and  tender  madness  of  the 
young,  broken-hearted  girl,  as  depicted  in  Ophe 
lia,  contrasted  with  the  '  insanity  of  purpose' — the 
mental  wandering  and  vacillation  of  a  weak  and 
noble  nature  —  exemplified  in  Hamlet  himself. 
The  grave-scene,  too,  in  the  same  play,  is  resplen 
dent  with  the  same  brilliance  of  contrasted  idio 
syncrasies  ;  for  here  we  have  the  quaint  logical 
merriment  of  the  old  grave-digger  played  off 
against  the  fine  philosophic  utterances  of  the 
young  Danish  prince — all  these  are  sufficient  to 
show  you,  lad,  that  the  principle  of  contrast,  when 
nicely  and  skillfully  handled,  can  lend  some  of  its 
highest  and  most  lustrous  beauties  to  the  picture. 
And  with  that  ends  the  list  of  the  chief  pleasures 
that  arise  from  mental  excitement,  my  son."* 

*  The  best  example  of  the  literary  glitter  produced  by  the 
figure  of  contrast  is,  so  far  as  we  know,  the  collocation  of  the 
wonders  revealed  by  the  telescope  and  microscope,  penned 
by  Dr.  Chalmers,  and  which  is  certainly  a  brilliant  instance 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  291 

THE    PLEASURES    OF   MENTAL   SATISFACTION. 

"  And  now  you're  going  to  do  the  pleasures  of 
mental  satisfaction,  ain't  you,  uncle  ?"  asked  the 
boy. 

of  its  kind.  There  is  perhaps  a  leetle  too  much  art  apparent 
in  the  balance  of  the  sentences,  and  continued  vibration  of 
the  mind  from  the  infinitely  great  to  the  infinitely  small, 
and  perhaps  it  is  just  a  taste  too  saccharine  to  fully  satisfy 
the  highly  educated  palate.  Nevertheless,  as  an  illustra 
tion  of  the  charms  of  this  rhetorical  form,  it  is  at  once  signal 
and  salient. 

"The  one  led  me  to  see  a  system  in  every  star;  the  other 
leads  me  to  see  a  world  in  every  atom.  The  one  taught  me 
that  this  mighty  globe,  with  the  whole  burden  of  its  people 
and  of  its  countries,  is  but  a  grain  of  sand  on  the  high  field 
of  immensity ;  the  other  teaches  me  that  every  grain  of  sand 
may  harbor  within  it  the  tribes  and  the  families  of  a  busy 
population.  The  one  told  me  of  the  insignificance  of  the 
world  I  tread  upon  ;  the  other  redeems  it  from  all  its  insig 
nificance,  for  it  tells  me  that  in  the  leaves  of  every  forest, 
and  in  the  flowers  of  every  garden,  and  in  the  waters  of 
every  rivulet,  there  are  worlds  teeming  with  life,  and  num 
berless  as  are  the  glories  of  the  firmament.  The  one  has 
suggested  to  me  that  beyond  and  above  all  that  is  visible  to 
man  there  may  be  fields  of  creation  which  sweep  immeasur 
ably  along,  and  carry  the  impress  of  the  Almighty's  hand  to 
the  remotest  scenes  of  the  universe ;  the  other  suggests  to 
me  that  within  and  beneath  all  that  minuteness  which  the 
aided  eye  of  man  has  been  able  to  explore,  there  may  be  a 
region  of  invisibles ;  and  that,  could  we  draw  aside  the  mys 
terious  curtain  which  shrouds  it  from  our  senses,  we  might 
there  see  a  theatre  of  as  many  wonders  as  astronomy  has  un 
folded — a  universe  within  the  compass  of  a  point  so  small 
as  to  elude  all  the  powers  of  the  microscope,  but  where  the 
wonder-working  God  finds  room  for  the  exercise  of  all  his 
attributes — where  He  can  raise  another  mechanism  of  worlds, 
and  fill  and  animate  them  with  all  the  evidences  of  his 
glory." 

The  only  fault  here,  we  repeat,  is  the  obviousness  of  the 
art  ("«rs  est  celare  artem"),  so  that  the  reader  is  led  to  see 
the  trick,  as  it  were,  by  which  the  effect  is  produced.  The 
fairy  piece  which  enchants  us  from  the  front  of  the  theatre 
is  but  poor  tawdry  clumsy  work  viewed  from  behind  the 
scenes,  and  hence  the  verses  of  Pope  and  Tommy  Moore, 


292  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

"Yes,  lad,"  was  the  answer;  "for  the  consid 
eration  of  the  love   of  change,  inherent  in  our 

exquisitely  artistic  as  they  are,  become  mere  elaborations  of 
wit  rather  than  flashes  of  true  poetic  fire  —  choice  specimens 
of  mental  handicraft  from  the  very  excess  of  art  that  has 
been  wasted  upon  them,  rather  than  those  fine  facile  crea 
tions  which  precede  rule  instead  of  following  it  ;  so  that  to 
pass  from  the  dead  level  of  the  perfect  polish  of  such  work 
to  the  rich,  rough,  and  forcible  fervor  of  true  poetic  genius, 
as  shown  in  Shakspeare,  is  the  same  as  shifting  the  mind 
from  the  contemplation  of  mere  filigree-work  to  the  stu 
pendous  achievements  of  modern  engineering  —  from  look 
ing  at  a  Berlin  bracelet  in  spun  cast-iron  to  the  massive 
grandeur  of  the  tubular  bridge  or  the  dizzy  triumph  of  the 
li  " 


But  if  the  quotation  from  Dr.  Chalmers  is  hardly  a  perfect 
specimen  of  this  form  of  literary  beauty,  because  the  artistry 
of  it  is  just  a  shade  too  marked,  what  can  be  said  of  the 
following  extract,  where  we  have  not  a  scintilla  of  beauty, 
but  merely  clap-trap  artifice  and  extravagance  instead? 
Here  the  form  which,  with  a  person  of  true  taste,  can  be 
made  to  yield  such  exquisite  delight,  becomes  positively  ugly 
as  an  oilman's  shop  front  from  the  patchwork  of  glaring 
colors  in  which  it  is  tricked  out.  The  effect  is  consequently 
merely  "loud,"  not  "tasty;"  and  that  black  and  white, 
which  in  a  Rembrandt's  etching  is  a  world  of  beauty,  be 
comes  as  vulgar  and  inartistic  as  the  sign  of  the  "  Checkers" 
on  a  public  house  door. 

'  '  It  was  the  best  of  times  ;  it  was  the  ivorst  of  times  ;  it  was 
the  age  of  wisdom  ;  it  was  the  age  of  foolishness  ;  it  was  the 
epoch  of  belief;  it  was  the  epoch  of  incredulity  ;  it  was  the 
season  of  light  ;  it  was  the  season  of  darkness  ;  it  was  the 
spring  of  hope  ;  it  was  the  winter  of  despair  ;  we  had  every 
thing  beforb  us  ;  we  had  nothing  before  us  ;  we  were  all  going 
direct  to  heaven  ;  we  were  all  going  direct  the  other  way  ;  in 
short,  the  period  was  so  far  like  the  present  period  that  some 
of  its  noisiest  authorities  insisted  on  its  being  received,  for 
good  or  for  evil,  in  the  superlative  degree  of  comparison 
only."  —  TALE  OP  Two  CITIES. 

Such  fatal  blemishes  as  the  above  are  really  like  rash  at 
tempts  at  literary  suicide  in  a  man  who  has  no  necessity  to 
stoop  to  trick  to  produce  an  impression.  But  who  can  for 
get  the  wretched  "artful  dodges"  of  "the  kettle  began  it;" 
no,  "the  cricket  began  it,"  in  the  "  Cricket  on  the  Hearth," 
and  the  raving  melodramatic  rubbish  of  "up,  up,  up,"  and 


THE    NEXT   TURNING.  293 

mental  nature,  cleared  the  way  for  the  explana 
tion  of  our  delight  in  those  vivid  impressions 

"down,  down,  down,"  and  "round,  round,  round,"  in  the 
"Chimes?"  Such  overdoing  as  this  surely  "can  not  but 
make  the  judicious  grieve." 

Now  compare  the  crudity  of  the  above  piece  of  verbal 
trickery  with  the  high  polish  and  sparkle  of  the  following 
bit  of  elegant  artifice  from  Sheridan's  wonderful  elaboration 
of  wit,  '•'•The  School  for  Scandal."  It  will  be  seen  that  it 
is  still  the  contrasted  figure  of  speech  that  gives  the  fine 
relish  to  the  subjoined  dainty  morsel  of  literary  luxury ;  and 
though  it  has  all  the  studied  artificiality  of  wit,  and  wants 
the  honest  geniality  of  delicate  humor  to  give  it  the  .true 
ring  of  spontaneous  rather  than  affected  merriment,  never 
theless,  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  play  and  oscillation  of 
the  antithesis  is  kept  up  in  a  masterly  manner,  and  that  the 
whim  vibrates  as  airily  and  elegantly  as  a  shuttlecock  be 
tween  the  battledores  in  skillful  hands. 

"  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. — When  an  old  bachelor  marries  a 
young  wife,  what  is  he  to  expect?  'Tis  now  six  months 
since  Lady  Teazle  made  me  the  happiest  of  men,  and  I  have 
been  the  most  miserable  dog  ever  since !  We  lift  a  little 
going  to  church,  and  fairly  quarreled  before  the  bells  had  done 
ringing.  I  was  more  than  once  nearly  choked  with  gall 
during  the  honeymoon,  and  had  lost  all  comfort  in  life  before 
my  friends  had  done  wishing  me  joy.  Yet  I  chose  with 
caution — a  girl  bred  wholly  in  the  country,  who  never  knew 
luxury  beyond  one  silk  gown,  nor  dissipation  above  the  an 
nual  gala  of  a  race-ball,  though  she  now  plays  her  part  in 
all  the  extravagant  fopperies  of  fashion  and  the  town  with  as 
ready  a  grace  as  if  she  never  had  seen  a  bush  or  grass-plot 
out  ofGrosvenor  Square!" — SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL,  Act  I., 
Scene  2. 

The  "luxury"  of  the  "one  silk  gown,"  and  the  "dissipa 
tion"  of  the  "annual  gala  of  the  race-ball,"  as  well  as  the 
"bush  or  grass-plot  out  ofGrosvenor  Square,"  are  nice  del 
icate  touches  of  wit,  though  out  of  the  contrasted  form. 

As  another  illustration  of  the  contrary  form  of  wit,  we 
may  cite  those  paradoxical  maxims  which  startle  us  with 
their  opposition  to  common  opinion,  and  yet  with  their 
truthfulness  to  a  certain  kind  of  debased  nature,  as,  for  in 
stance,  when  Eouchefoucauld  defines  gratitude  to  be  "a  live 
ly  expectation  of  favors  to  come,"  and  Talleyrand  explains 
speech  to  be  the  faculty  given  to  man  as  the  means  of  con 
cealing  his  real  thoughts  and  feelings. 


294  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

which  are  connected  with  states  of  mental  excite 
ment,  and  the  understanding  of  the  latter  subject 
has,  in  its  turn,  fitted  us,  in  a  measure,  for  the  due 
comprehension  of  the  charms  which  spring  from 
our  instinctive  longing  for  a  state  of  mental  ease. 
Before  we  can  desire  or  feel  the  delights  of  ease, 
however,  we  must  exist  in  some  state  of  uneasi 
ness.     Rest  and  repose  are  pleasurable  to  us  only 
after  violent  exertion  and  consequent  fatigue,  even 
.as  exercise  itself  is  especially  charming  after  long 
rest  and  consequent  tedium.     So,  again,  before  we 
can  feel  satisfied,  we  must  have  hungered ;  there 
must  have  been  a  precedent  craving  in  order  to 
enjoy  that  thorough  contentment  of  soul  which 
is  a  necessary  consequence  of  the  perfect  appease 
ment  of  the  previous  longing.     We  must  there 
fore,  Ben,  set  about  discovering  what  this  state 
of  mental  uneasiness  is,  that  corresponds  with  the 
bodily  uneasiness  of  appetite,  as  well  as  with  the 
wearisomeness  of  physical  fatigue ;  we  must  do 
this  before  we  can  get  thoroughly  down  to  the 
source  of  the  delight  which  comes  from  the  allay 
ing  of  the  uneasy  feeling.     Now,  though  we  are 
gladdened  by  change,  or  slight  differences,  and 
agreeably  astonished  by  the  perception  of 'extreme 
differences  among  things,  we  are,  on  the  other 
hand,  disgusted  by  any  mere  heterogeneous  chaos 
or  confused  tangle  of  ideas  and  objects.     The 
transitions  from  one  state  of  mind  to  the  other, 
which  make  us  so  delighted  with  change  and  va 
riety,  must,  in  order  to  delight  us,  be  essentially 
rhythmical,  as  it  were ;  that  is  to  say,  there  must 
be  a  mellifluence,  or  nice  gradation  about  it,  or 
else  it  would  not  correspond  with  that  series  of 
gentle  and  congenial  muscular  actions  which  is 
termed  physical  exercise.     Again,  the  inordinate 
vividness  of  the  impressions,  which  causes  us  to 
find  so  much  mental  pleasure  in  the  more  aston- 


THE  NEXT  TURNING. 


ishing  phenomena  of  nature,  is  pleasurable  prin 
cipally  because  this  same  inordinate  vividness 
serves,  as  it  were,  to  let  in  a  sudden  burst  of  light 
upon  the  brain,  and  so  to  render  the  astonishing 
objects  themselves  more  distinct  than^they  would 
otherwise  be  to  our  hazy  perceptions.  But, 
though  those  things,  which  are  extremely  differ 
ent,  thus  become  extremely  distinct  when  pre 
sented  to  the  mind  with  all  the  force  of  colloca 
tion  and  consequent  astonishment,  nevertheless 
such  things  as  are  utterly  heterogeneous  in  nature 
— that  is  to  say,  totally  separate  and  disjointed — 
are  merely  rendered  indistinct  and  confused  when 
juxtaposited ;  and  thus,  instead  of  gaining  extra 
light  from  the  juxtaposition,  they  really  appear 
even  more  confounded  than  they  naturally  are, 
and  so  become  more  obscure,  while  the  increase 
of  the  natural  obscurity  serves  to  make  such  per 
ceptions  as  hateful  to  us  as  darkness  itself.  There 
must  be  some  principle  of  coherence,  lad — some 
slight  thread  on  which  to  string  the  beads  of  our 
thoughts  and  perceptions — some  fine  connecting 
bond  of  common  sense  to  unite  the  series,  other 
wise  the  irrelevant  sequence  has  all  the  incompre 
hensibility  of  nonsense,  and  the  wild  chaos  of 
ideas  all  the  incoherence  of  madness;  than  which, 
perhaps,  there  is  nothing  so  maddening^to  attend 
to.  True  mental  uneasiness,  then,  springs  from 
that  'state  of  perplexity  and  bewilderment,  that 
sense  of  confoundedness  and  distractedness  of 
mind,  which  we  experience  whenever  the  thoughts 
appear  to  run  wild,  as  it  were,  and  to  crowd  upon 
the  brain  with  all  the  inconsequence  of  delirium, 
and  all  the  disorder  and  unconnectedness  of  over- 
excitement  or  phrensy.  Thus,  lad,  you  perceive 
by  what  fine  shades  and  gradations  the  rainbow 
hues  of  the  emotions  pass  into  one  another.  A 
slight  difference  or  change  produces  the  pleasur- 


296  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

able  feeling  of  mental  exercise.  A  wide  and 
marked  difference  or  contrast  occasions  the  live 
lier  pleasure  of  mental  excitement,  whereas  total 
dissimilarity  and  disconnection  give  rise  to  over- 
excitement  and  that  consequent  uneasy  state 
which  is  termed  mental  perplexity  or  bewilder 
ment." 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  it  as  you  explain  it  now,"  ejac 
ulated  the  youth. 

"  Well,  it  is  often  the  case,  Ben,  when  any 
thing  very  extraordinary  is  presented  to  the  mind, 
that  the  astonishment  occasioned  by  the  percep 
tion  of  it  is  succeeded  by  a  state  of  wonder,  and 
this  is  literally  the  dwelling  or  fond  and  lovely 
lingering  of  the  soul  over  the  object  which  has 
excited  its  admiration.*  But  this  tendency  to 
linger  over  the  admirable  and  extraordinary  nat 
urally  sets  the  intellect  speculating  as  to  the  cause 
or  special  excellence  of  the  rare  event  or  object 
before  us ;  and  then,  if  the  wonder  can  not  be  sat 
isfied,  if  the  marvel  can  not  be  explained,  if  the 
rarity  be  utterly  unlike  any  thing  ever  seen  be 
fore,  and  there  be  no  apparent  means  of  learning 
whence  it  came,  or  how  it  happened,  or  to  what 
type  it  belongs,  then,  I  say,  such  a  veil  of  mystery 
seems  to  us  to  envelop  it,  and  such  a  jostling 
crowd  of  idle  speculations  concerning  it  keep 
rushing  into  the  brain — such  a  chaos  of  incoher 
ent  conjectures  at  once  encumber  and  confound 
the  reason,  that  as  the  mind  attends  to  one  vague 

*  The  primitive  meaning  of  the  Latin  root  miror  in  admi- 
ratio  is  to  be  found  in  the  Armoric  word  Mirez,  to  hold,  stop, 
dwell ;  and  whence  comes  the  Fr.  Demeurer,  and  our  Demur, 
and  Moor  (as  a  ship).  So  the  Anglo-Saxon  Wondrian,  to 
wonder,  is  connected  with  our  old  English  word  to  wone,  to 
dwell  (Sax.  Wennan);  and  Wont,  custom.  The  primary 
sense  of  astonishment,  on  the  other  hand,  is  that  stunning  of 
the  mind  which  is  produced  by  any  loud  noise  or  din,  such  as 
thunder  and  other  astounding  phenomena. 


THE    NEXT   TURNING.  29T 

surmise  after  another,  and  still  finds  no  clew  to 
the  tangle,  no  resting-place  in  the  wilderness,  and 
sees  not  a  solitary  star-speck  of  light  glimmering 
through  the  darkness  of  the  clouds — why  then 
the  wonder-stricken  are  lost  in  a  worrying  maze 
of  bewilderment,  as  it  is  called,  and  grow  restless 
under  the  uneasiness  of  the  perplexity  that  fetters 
their  understanding,  while  they  are  devoured  by 
a  positive  craving  of  curiosity  that  keeps  gnaw 
ing  and  gnawing  at  the  soul,  like  the  eagle  at  the 
heart  of  poor  struggling  Prometheus  chained  to 
the  rock.  The  mental  action  which  accompanies 
a  state  of  perplexity,  then,  you  will  perceive,  lad, 
is  essentially  different  from  the  movement  of  the 
mind  in  a  state  of  exercise :  in  the  latter  state  the 
thoughts  flow  naturally  and  steadily  onward,  but 
in  perplexity  there  is  no  advance,  but  merely  that 
mental  oscillation  or  vacillation  —  that  continued 
shifting  backward  and  forward,  to  and  from  the 
perplexing  object,  which  is  always  connected  with 
doubt  and  distraction.  It  is  this  protracted  flut 
ter  of  the  mind,  this  unpleasant  palpitation  of  the 
soul,  as  it  were,  this  spasmodic  throb  of  thought 
in  the  state  of  doubt  that  makes  the  feeling  so 
distressing  to  us  all,  and  which  gives  it  its  princi 
pal  uneasiness,  while  the  uneasiness  itself  excites 
in  us  the  same  yearning  and  gnawing  as  a  bodily 
craving  to  appease  it.  It  is,  indeed,  a  mental  ap 
petite,  that  hunger  of  the  intellect  for  some  object 
that  will  satisfy  it ;  that  yearning  for  knowledge 
and  enlightenment,  which  is  termed  curiosity 
when  stirred  by  the  more  trivial  riddles  and  puz 
zles  of  life,  and  philosophy  when  moved  by  the 
great  mysteries  of  nature  itself.  Hence  you  can 
easily  understand,  lad,  that  whatever  serves  to  al 
lay  the  great  intellectual  want  of  our  minds  be 
comes  as  palatable  to  our  brain  as  even  food  or 
drink  to  the  hungering  or  thirsting  body  —  ay, 


293  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

and  it  leaves  behind  it  the  same  sense  of  satisfac 
tion  and  contentment  as  we  feel  when  the  bodily 
appetite  is  thoroughly  appeased.  Any  thing, 
therefore,  which  tends  to  clear  up  our  doubts ;  to 
unravel,  be  it  never  so  little,  the  tangled  skein  of 
circumstances  encompassing  our  lives — to  give  us 
the  least  enlightenment  in  the  pitchy  darkness  of 
the  world's  mysteries,  is  as  delightful  and .  com 
forting  to  the  bewildered  and  troubled  intellect 
as  the  allaying  of  bodily  anguish  and  bodily  fa 
tigue,  for  it  brings  sweet  relief  to  the  aching 
brain,  blessed  mental  rest  to  the  mentally  weary." 

"  Strange,  isn't  it,  uncle,  that  there  should  be 
the  same  appetites  in  our  mind  as  there  are  in  our 
body,"  remarked  the  little  fellow,  "  and  that  we 
should  feel  the  same  want  for  knowledge  as  we 
do  for  food !" 

The  old  man  scarcely  heard  the  boy's  remark, 
however,  for  he  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his 
subject  to  be  diverted  from  the  continuity  of  his 
own  thoughts ;  so  on  he  went :  "  Now  it  is  the 
delight  and  soothing  repose  of  the  soul  that  we 
feel  in  states  of  mental  satisfaction  that  is  the 
main  cause  of  the  transcendent  charms  we  find  in 
the  contemplation  of  perfection  itself:  a  perfect 
circle  even,  for  instance ;  a  perfect  crystal  with 
out  flaw  or  speck ;  a  perfect  face,  with  all  the 
features  in  due  proportion,  finely  chiseled,  and 
radiant  at  once  with  health,  cheerfulness,  intelli 
gence,  and  kindness ;  a  perfect  human  form,  ex 
quisitely  modeled,  perfect  in  its  symmetry  and 
the  fine  flowing  outline  of  the  limbs,  and  perfect 
in  the  grace  of  its  gestures,  and  the  lithesome 
ease  of  its  actions ;  or,  indeed,  a  perfect  any  thing, 
even  up  to  the  one  transcendent  Perfection — the 
perfection  of  all  perfection — God  himself.  In- 
deed,-not  only  does  the  feeling  of  perfect  mental 
satisfaction  give  rise  to  the  pleasure  we  find  in 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  299 

perfection  of  all  kinds,  and  hence  lie  at  the  very 
root  of  our  love  of  beauty,  but  it  is  evident  that 
we  never  feel  mentally  satisfied  with  any  thing  so 
long  as  we  can  discover  any  imperfection,  any  de 
fect  or  blemish  in  it;  and  the  dissatisfaction  we 
feel  at  the  perception  of  any  defect  or  blemish  is 
a  state  of  mental  uneasiness  that  greatly  annoys 
and  irritates  the  mind.  Even  a  button  off  a  coat 
is  particularly  vexing  to  the  eye ;  a  thing  out  of 
straight,  out  of  square,  or  out  of  truth,  as  car 
penters  say;  a  book  with  a  page  of  the  text  torn 
out ;  a  set  of  some  great  author's  works  wanting 
one  volume,  and  so  on — these  are  things  that  it 
is  impossible  to  be  pleased  with,  and  that  simply 
because  the  mind  can  not  exist  in  a  state  of  satis 
faction  and  contentment  so  long  as  the  sense  of 
the  want  is  impressed  upon  it.  There  must  be 
absolute  integrity  of  all  the  parts,  otherwise  the 
detection  of  the  smallest  deficiency  will  be  sure 
to  change  the  beauty  into  an  ugliness,  the  para 
gon  into  a  deformity ;  for  deformity  itself  is  only 
an  excessive  variation  from  that  type  which  is 
considered  to  be  the  perfect  form  of  things.  So, 
again,  we  delight  in  any  thing  which  seems  to 
give  us  that  perfect  understanding,  or  grasp  of 
all  the  parts,  or  thorough  sense  of  a  subject  which 
is  called  the  comprehension  of  it ;  even  as,  on  the 
contrary,  we  hate  what  conveys  no  sense  at  all 
to  us,  or,  in  other  words,  is  utter  nonsense  to  our 
minds.  It  is,  indeed,  from  the  mental  satisfaction 
that  we  feel  upon  the  solving  of  any  mystery,  and 
the  removing  of  the  natural  uneasiness  of  perplex 
ity,  that  such  high  delight  is  found  in  the  study 
of  natural  philosophy  by  those  minds  which  are 
struck  by  the  mighty  mystery  of  the  world  about 
them ;  and  even  though  the  light  afforded  by  the 
study  be  but  as  feeble  as  that  cottager's  lamp 
yonder,  shooting  the  golden  spider-threads  of  its 


300  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

rays  far  into  the  darkness  of  the  distance,  yet 
there  is  the  same  charm  in  the  study  to  the 
thoughtful  man  as  that  earth-star  has  to  the  wan 
derer  in  the  night ;  for  to  the  intellectual  miner, 
working  deep  under  the  surface,  the  faintest  ray 
is  sufficient  for  continuing  the  toil.  Besides, 
there  is  a  fine,  rich,  and  sombre  beauty,  lad,  in 
the  '  clear  obscure' — in  that  mere  glimmer  of  light 
which  simply  serves,  as  Milton  grandly  says,  to 
make  the  darkness  visible ;  and  if  philosophy  does 
but  make  out  to  us  the  black  background  of  in 
finite  space  and  infinite  distance,  frowning  be 
tween  the  tiny  star-points  of  its  small  discoveries 
— like  the  vast  endless  cavern  of  the  incompre 
hensible — there  is  still  a  solemn  and  deep  beauty 
in  contemplating  the  fine,  massive,  and  unfathom 
able  darkness,  that  walls  in  the  world  of  man's 
knowledge,  and  looking  into  it,  as  one  loves  to 
try  and  fathom  with  the  eye  the  unfathomable 
depths  of  the  great  ocean  itself,  even  while  we 
wonder,  wonder,  and  wonder,  as  we  strain  the 
sight  till  the  tears  come,  what  is  at  the  bottom 
of  it  all. 

"  Again,"  he  proceeded,  "  the  pleasure  that  is 
found  in  clever  theories  and  lucid  explanations,  in 
happy  illustrations  and  apt  examples,  proceeds 
from  the  same  source — the  love  of  light  in  dark 
ness,  the  love  of  rest  after  weariness.  Now  I 
pointed  out  to  you  before,  Ben,  that  a  sense  of  in 
coherence  and  disconnectedness  among  a  number 
of  consecutive  things  distracts  and,  indeed,  half 
maddens  us,  even  as  a  sense  of  heterogeneousness 
and  confusion  among  a  multiplicity  of  coexistent 
things  tends,  in  its  turn,  to  throw  the  mind  into 
almost  the  same  confusion  as  the  objects  them 
selves.  So,  on  the  contrary,  a  sense  of  coherence 
and  natural  order  in  the  succession  of  events  and 
ideas,  or  a  sense  of  systematic  arrangement  and 


THE    NEXT    TURNING. 

fitness  among  coexistent  objects,  inordinately  de 
lights  us,  and  it  does  so  simply  by  removing  the 
distress  of  mind  which  is  necessarily  consequent 
upon  the  opposite  impression.     What  tidiness  is 
among  housewives,  classification  is  among  philos 
ophers — the  mere  orderly  arrangement  of  things. 
A  large  part  of  natural  science  consists  merely  in 
grouping  objects  together  into  genera  and  spe 
cies,  orders  and  varieties ;  and  these  are  merely 
so  many  separate  pigeon-holes,  as  it  were,  for  the 
convenient  sorting  of  the  '  notes'  of  the  brain,  so 
that  one  may  be  able  to  lay  hold  of  any  missing 
memorandum  in  a  minute.     By  these  means  the 
mental  and  natural  chaos  of  the  world  to  ignorant 
eyes  is  brought  into  something  like  the  order  that 
the  Almighty  has  impressed  upon  creation,  and 
the  mind  enabled  to  look  down,  almost  from  the 
very  altitude  of  heaven  itself,  and  take  something 
like  an  angel's  broad  view  of  the  universe  and 
its  infinite  variety  of  phenomena.     And  it  is  the 
vast   comprehension    and  clear-sightedness   that 
the  mind  thus  obtains  from  philosophic  teachings 
which  serve  to  give  the  highest  mental  satisfac 
tion  to  the  student.    By  this  means  the  very  rocks 
and  stones  have  been,  as  it  were,  numbered  and 
labeled ;  every  beast  in  the  field  and  forest,  every 
bird,  and,  indeed,  every  tiny  insect  in  the  air  and 
among  the  grass ;  every  fish,  ay,  and  almost  every 
animalcule  in  the  water,  has  been  studied  and  al 
lotted  its  due  place  in  creation ;  every  flower  in 
the  hedgerow,  too,  in  the  garden,  in  the  desert, 
and  on  the  mountain  top  ;  every  tree,  shrub,  and 
herb  on  the  earth,  down  even  to  every  little  piece 
of  moss  and  weed  on  the  rocks  and  ruins ;  every 
shell  upon  the  shore ;  every  little  star  in  the  sky ; 
every  lump  of  matter  in  the  world ;  every  crystal 
form  found  in  the  caves ;  every  bit  of  metal  in 
the  mines  ;  every  gas  in  the  atmosphere ;  every 


YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

color,  every  hue,  and  every  form ;  every  bend  and 
motion  of  the  light ;  every  force  and  power  at 
work  in  the  universe ;  every  country,  every  sea, 
and  almost  every  river,  mountain,  and  town,  over 
the  whole  globe ;  every  bone,  muscle,  blood-ves 
sel,  nerve,  gland,  and  organ  throughout  the  body, 
ay,  and  almost  every  feeling  and  faculty  that  there 
is  in  the  mind,  have  all  been  noted,  scanned,  de 
scribed,  and  duly  mapped  out,  and  that  so  lucidly 
that  the  intellect  can  see  with  an  eagle  glance,  as 
it  soars  high  into  the  air,  the  whole  of  the  world, 
the  whole  of  life,  ay,  and  almost  the  whole  of  the 
universe  at  once.  Nor  is  this  all :  the  very  order 
of  events  themselves,  the  secret  machinery  and 
almost  mainspring  of  the  movements  of  the  plan 
ets,  and  our  own  earth  and  moon,  have  all  been 
laid  bare,  and  the  endless  chapter  of  accidents  of 
which  life  and  nature  appear  to  the  vulgar  to  be 
composed  have  been  shown  to  be  part  of  one 
mighty  system,  where  all  is  harmony  and  propor 
tion,  law  and  order,  and  where  the  music  of  the 
spheres  is  but  the  resonance  of  the  universal  con 
cord  of  things — the  very  breath  of  heaven,  breath 
ing  a  fine  suggestive  sweetness  into  the  thrilling 
chords  of  Nature's  grand  JEolian  harp." 

THE    PLEASURES    OF    MENTAL    HABITS. 

"And  now,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  as  his  god 
father  paused  once  more  on  coming  to  the  end 
of  the  subject,  "you've  got  only  the  pleasure  of 
mental  habit  to  explain,  haven't  you  ?" 

The  old  man  answered,  "  Yes,  lad,  that  follows 
next,  certainly ;  but  after  that  there  will  still  be 
the  pleasures  that  proceed  from  our  perception 
of  artistic  power,  both  in  man  and  the  great 
Creator  of  all  things.  Now,  my  little  fellow,  do 
you  remember  what  I  told  you  -was  the  special 
function  of  habit?  Let  me  hear." 


THE  ^EXT   TURNING.  303 

"Oh  yes,  uncle,"  spoke  out  the  boy,  as  he 
turned  round  and  looked  his  godfather  full  in  the 
face,  smiling  the  while  with  the  simple  pride  of 
his  heart  at  the  knowledge  he  felt  within  him ; 
"  you  said  habit  rendered  that  which  was  at  first 
irksome  to  do,  pleasurable  after  a  time  to  per 
form,  and  you  said,  too — " 

"That  will  do,  good  fellow,"  interrupted  the 
tutor,  with  a  pressure  on  the  boy's  plump  palm 
that  whispered  a  volume  of  fine  pleasant  things 
into  his  heart ;  "  that  is  sufficient  for  us  to  bear 
in  mind  at  present — except,  indeed,  you  should 
recollect  also  what  I  told  you  at  the  time  was  the 
wondrous  character  of  the  change  wrought  by 
habit.  You  should  remember  that  the  mere  con 
tinued  repetition  of  an  act  can  render  it,  however 
difficult  and  distasteful  at  first,  easy  and  con 
genial  to  us  at  last ;  that  it  can  transform  pain 
into  pleasure,  labor  into  comparative  pastime,  and 
give  to  the  most  arduous  voluntary  actions  all  the 
simplicity  and  insensibility  of  mere  clock-work." 

"  I  remember  it  well,  unky,  dear,"  added  young 
Ben. 

"Well,  then,  lad,"  proceeded  the  old  man, 
"what  we  have  now  to  consider  is  the  mental 
pleasure  that  we  derive  from  the  mere  principle 
of  repetition,  of  which  habit,  or  the  propensity  to 
repeat,  is  the  special  consequence.  The  first  dis 
tinctive  mark  of  the  repetitive  principle,  then,  is 
its  sedative  influence  on  the  system;  that  is  to 
say,  its  power  to  allay,  or,  rather,  to  deaden  the 
pain  or  uneasiness  connected  with  any  violent  or 
unusual  exertion.  Even  the  most  agreeable  im 
pression,  continually  iterated  and  reiterated  for 
a  certain  length  of  time,  eventually  palls  upon 
us;  for  the  pleasure  connected  with  it  becomes 
gradually  weaker  and  weaker  with  the  continued 
repetition,  and  ultimately  passes,  by  fine  and  al- 


304  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FJBANKLIN. 

most  insensible  degrees,  into  disgust  and  tedium, 
while  it  occasionally  finishes  by  being  absolutely 
overpowering  in  its  offensiveness  to  the  surfeited 
nature.  This  is  the  case  not  only  with  the  sweets 
that  to  a  child's  palate  are  morsels  of  solid  melt 
ing  delight,  yet  gross  sickly  stuff  to  the  more  ma 
ture  and  refined  taste  of  manhood,  but  it  is  the 
same  also  (as  I  before  pointed  out  to  you)  with 
what  is  called  'monotony;'  for,  no  matter  how 
intrinsically  beautiful  the  thing  iterated  may  ap 
pear  at  first  to  the  mind,  the  continued  reiteration 
of  it  is  sure,  sooner  or  later,  to  produce  tedium 
and  weariness,  and  that  even  until  the  mind  feels 
the  same  fatigue  almost  as  the  body  does  after 
long  exercise,  and  the  same  disposition  to  lapse 
into  that  slighter  form  of  mental  coma — that  soft 
swoon  of  the  tired  senses,  from  which  the  patient 
can  be  roused  with  comparatively  little  difficulty, 
and  which  is  commonly  denominated  'sleep.' 
Hence  the  sedative  effect  of  certain  continuously- 
recurrent  sounds  in  nature :  the  murmur  of  the 
brooks,  for  instance,  the  throb  of  the  water-wheel, 
and  the  lullaby  of  the  mother;  and  hence  the 
means  of  producing  sleep  artificially  are  all  made 
to  depend  upon  the  lulling  power  of  the  contin 
ued  repetition  of  the  same  idea,  such  as  fancying 
one  sees  a  flock  of  sheep  going  through  a  gate 
one  after  another,  or  imagining  one's  self  to  be 
counting  some  hundreds  of  nails  successively.* 
Now  the  sense  of  pleasure  and  ease  which  the 
mind  obtains  from  this  same  principle  of  mere 

*  The  sleep  induced  by  what  is  called  "Mesmerism,"  or 
"Animal  Magnetism, "  or  "  Electro-Biology, "  may  also  be 
cited  as  an  instance  of  the  comatose  tendency  of  the  long 
persistence  of  one  and  the  same  object  before  the  mind.  The 
hypnotic  "fluid,"  which  is  supposed  to  pass  from  the  agent 
to  the  patient,  under  such  circumstances  may  be  extracted 
from  a  prosy  book,  a  dull  sermon,  a  boring  lecture,  et  id 
genus  omne. 


THE   NEXT   TUBNING.  305 

repetition  appears  to  lie  at  the  base  of  a  consid 
erable  number  of  our  purest  mental  delights. 
There  must  surely  be  an  innate  gratification  in 
the  simple  recognition  of  an  object,  else  why  the 
special  charm  of  an  old  familiar  face,  or  even  an 
old  familiar  tree,  or  of  that  group  of  old  familiar 
objects  which  makes  up  the  happy  integrity  of 
some  old  familiar  haunt?  Granted  every  such 
object  is  mantled  with  green  associations  as  thick 
ly  as  the  old  church  with  its  clustering  ivy,  and 
that  the  sight  of  them  revives  some  bright  and 
lovely  memory,  one  after  another,  till  the  brain 
buzzes  with  the  golden  bits  of  life  like  to  a  hive 
of  bees ;  and  granted,  too,  that  this  mere  move 
ment  of  the  associations  in  the  mind  is,  as  I  said 
before,  sufficient  to  account  for  a  large  portion 
of  the  mental  delight  felt  under  such  circum 
stances  ;  still,  that  the  simple  recognition  of  the 
old  things  and  places  has  a  charm  of  its  own, 
apart  from  any  pleasure  associated  with  the  ob 
jects  themselves,  is  proved  by  the  attraction  that 
the  mere  repetitive  processes  of  art  have  for  even 
the  commonest  minds.  This  is  shown  in  the  de 
light  the  vulgar  feel  in  mere  imitation — in  the 
shadow  of  the  rabbit  on  the  wall,  in  which  the 
baby  itself  finds  pleasure  ;  in  mimicry  of  manners 
and  tones — in  pictorial  representations  of  '  still 
life' — in  'striking  likenesses' — in  perfect  copies 
of  any  kind,  or  models — and  even  in  the  contin 
ually-recurring  chorus  to  a  song,  as  well  as  the 
impressive  burden  of  some  plaintive  ballad,  or  the 
perpetually  reiterated  'gag-words'  of  the  mum 
mers  on  the  stage.  Again,  we  all  know  how  in 
tense  a  pleasure  there  is  in  the  repetition  of  a 
favorite  air,  and  how  the  people  of  some  countries 
are  stirred  to  the  very  depths  of  their  souls  on 
hearing  some  pet  piece  of  their  national  music 
when  far  away  from  their  home  and  fatherland. 

u 


306  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

Indeed,  the  mere  enforced  repetition  of  a  word  in 
literary  or  poetical  composition  can  often  lend  in 
tense  beauty  to  a  passage.* 

*  But  not  only  is  the  repetition  of  the  same  word  when 
finely  worked,  so  as  to  enforce  some  one  idea  upon  the  mind, 
a  source  of  great  intellectual  delight,  but  even  the  repetition 
of  the  same  initial  letter,  when  it  is  used  as  a  means  of  link 
ing  together,  or  giving  the  fancy  some  faint  notion  of  resem 
blance  between  ideas  that  are  diametrically  opposed,  has  a 
small  charm  appertaining  to  it.  Pope,  who  perhaps  was  the 
greatest  poetic  artist  the  world  ever  saw,  and  that  without 
even  a  twinkle  of  high  poetic  genius  in  his  composition,  oft 
en  made  fine  use  of  this  alliterative  trick ;  e.  g.,  he  says, 

"  But  thousands  die  Avithout  this  or  that, 
Die  and  endow  a  college  or  a  cat." 

Farther,  in  his  "Imitations  of  Horace,"  the  same  author 
says: 

"  Fill  but  his  purse,  our  poet's  work  is  done, 
Alike  to  him,  by  pathos  or  by  pun." 

In  another  place  ("Moral  Essays")  he  treats  us  to  the  fol 
lowing  couplet : 

"  Or  her  whose  life  the  church  and  scandal  share, 
Forever  in  a  passion  or  a  prayer." 

However,  in  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  he  describes  the  ap 
paratus  of  Belinda's  toilet  in  one  neat  alliterative  line,  as 
"  Pun%  powders,  patches— Bibles,  billet-doux." 

So,  again,  in  the  Nursery  Rhymes,  the  alliterative  process 
is  used  as  a  means  of  tickling  the  brain  even  of  children 
themselves,  as  in  "  Peter  Piper  picked  a  peck  of  pepper,"  and 
"  Roderick  Random  rode  a  raw-boned  racer,"  etc.  Farther, 
entire  poems  —  poems  of  hundreds  of  lines  in  length  —  have 
been  written  in  which  the  feat  has  been  to  make  each  word 
begin  with  the  same  initial  letter.  The  old  "  Papa  pariens" 
and  " Pugna  Porcorum"  are  curious  instances  of  this: 

"  Plaudite  Procelli,  Porcorum  pigra  propago 
Progreditur,  plures  Porci  pinguedine  pleni 
Pugnante.3  pergunt,  pecudum  pars  prodigiosa 
Perturbat  pede  petrosas  plerumque  plateas, 
Pars  portentosa  populorum  prata  prophanat 
Pars  pungit  populando  potens,  pars  plurirna  plagis 
Pratendit  punire  pares,  prosternere  parvos," 
etc.  etc.  etc. 

"•Purjna  Porcorum, 

Per  P.  Portium  Poetam,  1690." 

Again,  Anagrams  and  Acrostics  are  other  curious  examples 
of  the  simple  mental  delights  that  can  be  associated  even 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  SOT 

"  *  If  it  were  done,  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well 
It  were  done  quickly, ' 

says  Macbeth,  with  a  fine  ring  upon  the  doing  of 
the  deed  that  appalls  and  absorbs  his  whole  soul. 
Farther,  what  exquisite  pathos  and  tragic  power 
is  produced  by  the  same  high  artistic  use  of  the 
same  simple  means  after  the  murder  in  this  play 
has  been  committed ! 

"  'One  cried  God  bless  us!  (says  Macbeth)  and  Amen  the 

other, 

As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands. 
Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say  Amen 
When  they  did  say  God  bless  us.' 

And  the  great  master  then  goes  on  to  give  us  a 
wonderfully  touching  and  grand  sense  of  the  in 
cessant  haunting  of  the  guilty  conscience.  Now 

with  mere  letters  themselves  in  literary  art.  In  anagrams, 
however,  where  the  letters  of  the  original  word  are  so  trans 
posed  as  to  express  some  idea  that  is  intimately  connected 
with  the  subject,  the  mind  is  occasionally  thrown  into  a  form 
of  wonder  at  the  extraordinary  character  of  the  apposition, 
and  set  speculating  upon  what  the  old  philosophers  called  the 
"universal  fitness  of  things,"  and  this  adds  greatly  to  the 
literal  pleasure  itself.  As,  for  example,  when  we  find  that 
the  letters  in  the  name  of  Horatio  Nelson  admit  of  being 
transposed  into  the  words  "Honor  est  a  Nilo,"  the  secondary 
idea  is  so  strangely  apt  that  it  strikes  the  mind  that  it  must 
have  been  foreseen,  even  from  the  very  invention  of  the  alpha 
bet  itself.  Again,  there  are  many  literal  enigmas  that  have 
a  fine  artistic  charm  with  them.  The  one  on  the  letter  h, 
which  is  generally  attributed  to  Lord  Byron,  is  perhaps  the 
genius  of  this  kind  of  mental  turnery — this  intellectual  inge 
nuity,  which  seems  so  akin  to  nice  handiwork  that  one  is  led 
to  fancy  it  depends  upon  the  very  fingers  of  the  brain — some 
delicate  cerebral  touch,  as  it  were,  rather  than  the  vigorous 
grasp  of  true  intellectual  force. 

u  'Twas  whisper'd  in  ZTeaven,  'twas  mutter'd  in  Bell, 
And  echo  caught  faintly  the  sound  as  it  fell, 
On  the  confines  of  eart/i  'twas  permitted  to  rest, 
And  the  dept/is  of  the  ocean  its  presence  confess' d. 
'Twill  be  found  in  the  sphere  when  'tis  riven  asunder; 
'Tis  seen  in  the  lightning,  and  heard  in  the  tftunder," 
etc.  etc.  etc. 


308  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

mark,  Ben,  in  the  passage  I  am  going  to  quote  to 
you,  with  what  fine  force,  owing  to  its  continued 
recurrence,  the  term  sleep  seems  to  strike  upon 
the  ear,  and  to  keep  ringing  in  the  mind  as  sol 
emnly  as  a  tolling  bell. 

"  '  Mcthought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  Sleep  no  more ! 
Macbeth  does  murder  sleep,  the  innocent  sleep ; 
Sleep,  that  knits  up  the  ravel'd  sleave  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labor's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  Nature's  second  course, 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast. 

*  Lady  Macbeth.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

'  Macbeth.  Still  it  cried,  Sleep  no  more !  to  all  the  house : 
Glamis  hath  murder'd  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more.     Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more !' 

"  There  is  not  perhaps  a  grander  instance  of 
poetic  and  tragic  power  to  be  found  in  the  litera 
ture  of  any  age  or  any  country  than  this,  lad," 
added  Uncle  Benjamin.  "The  sleeplessness  of 
the  murderer  is  here  enforced  in  so  masterly  and 
vigorous  a  manner,  and  there  is  such  a  fine  super 
natural  and  ghostly  tone  given  to  the  words  with 
which  the  murderer's  brain  is  ringing,  together 
with  a  dash  of  such  exquisite  beauty  to  relieve  it 
in  the  lovely  images  of  the  continually-recurring 
sleep,  sleep,  that  it  becomes  at  once  as  touching 
and  terrible  a  passage  as  was  ever  penned  by  hu 
man  hand." 

The  uncle  had  been  so  rapt  in  the  beauty  of  his 
favorite  author  that  he  was  obliged  to  reflect  for 
a  minute  as  to  "  whereabouts  he  was"  before  he 
could  take  up  the  thread  of  his  argument.  "  Oh 
yes,  I  remember,"  he  exclaimed,  half  to  himself, 
"  I  was  pointing  out  to  you,  lad,  the  delight  we 
experience  from  the  mere  repetition  of  the  same 
impressions  upon  our  minds.  Well,  Ben,"  he 
went  on,  as  cheerily  as  ever,  "  it  is  the  mere  pleas 
ure  of  recognizing  the  same  quality  or  thing  under 
different  circumstances  that  makes  us  find  such  a 


THE   NEXT   TURNING. 

special  charm  in  the  perception  of  resemblances 
either  in  poetic  figures  or  scientific  analogies,  or 
even  the  fables  and  allegories  of  literature  and 
the  parables  of  Scripture.  In  the  vivid  state  of 
astonishment,  you  know,  we  are  struck  by  the 
same  thing  appearing  to  us  under  widely  different 
circumstances,  or  in  association  with  something 
that  is  diametrically  opposite  from  what  we  ex 
pected,  so  that  the  perception  of  the  marked  dif 
ference  seizes  and  impresses  itself  upon  the  mind 
with  all  the  vividness  of  an  emotion.  In  the  per 
ception  of  resemblances,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  not 
the  unexpected  difference  of  the  association  with 
one  and  the  same  object,  but  the  perception  of  an 
unexpected  resemblance  between  two  different 
objects ;  the  detection  of  one  and  the  same  quality 
inhering  in  two  things  that  were  utterly  distinct 
in  our  minds ;  the  discovery  of  a  point  of  unity 
where  there  is  apparently  such  utter  variety,  that 
fastens  itself  upon  us  with  such  force  and  start 
ling  beauty.  Take,  for  instance,"  said  Uncle  Ben 
jamin,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  "  Shak- 
speare's  lovely  figure  of  early  morning  peeping 
over  the  hills,  as  given  in  the  line 

"  'Jocund  day  stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  top.' 

What  a  fine  bit  of  painting  is  this,  and  what  ex 
quisite  delight  bursts  upon  the  brain  with  the 
perception  of  the  analogy !  Still,  I  must  quote  to 
you,  lad,  the  sweetest  simile  that  is  to  be  found 
throughout  the  entire  range  of  poetry,  and  which 
gives  us  the  most  graceful  conception  of  unity  in 
diversity  that  was  ever  achieved  by  art.  ^Mark, 
too,  how  beautifully  the  idea  of  oneness  in  two 
distinct  beings  is  enforced  by  the  continued  echo 
of  the  word. 

«  < Oh,  and  is  all  forgot?' 


310  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

(says  Helena,  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream) : 

'We,  Hermia 

Have  with  our  neelds  created  both  one  flower, 
Both  on  one  sampler,  sitting  on  one  cushion, 
Both  warbling  of  one  song,  both  in  one  key, 
As  if  our  hands,  our  sides,  voices,  and  minds 
Had  been  incorporate.     So  we  grew  together, 
Like  to  a  double  cherry,  seeming  parted, 
But  yet  a  union  in  partition, 
Two  lovely  berries  moulded  on  one  stem  ; 
So,  with  two  seeming  bodies,  but  one  heart.' 

"  Moreover,  it  is  this  perception  of  agreement 
between  two  different  notes — the  felt  union  of 
the  vibrations,  at  frequent  and  regular  intervals, 
between  two  musical  sounds  beating  different 
times — which  makes  up  the  delightful  perception 
of  musical  harmony,  even  as  proportion  among 
numbers  is  but  the  same  perception  of  agreement 
between  the  different  ratios ;  the  expression  2  :  4 
::  6  :  12,  for  instance,  signifies  merely  that  four  is 
double  two,  and  twelve  double  six ;  or,  rather, 
that  the  same  multiple  (2)  is  common  to  each  of 
the  two  ratios.  Again,  order  among  a  number 
of  coexistent  objects  is  merely  the  perception  of 
a  certain  agreement  about  their  arrangement,  or, 
in  other  words,  a  sense  of  uniformity  as  to  differ 
ent  positions  they  occupy ;  and  this  may  be  either 
the  order  of  regular  intervals,  regular  lines,  reg 
ular  figures,  or  of  what  is  called  congruity,  that  is 
to  say,  of  that  fit  and  proper  collocation  which  be 
longs  to  natural  or  convenient  association.  And 
so,  in  the  succession  of  events,  it  is  but  the  same 
perception  of  agreement  in  the  sequence  of  dif 
ferent  phenomena  that  constitutes  what  is  called 
the  order  of  nature ;  for  even  the  perception  of 
cause  and  effect  itself,  so  far  as  the  natural  beauty 
of  the  idea  is  concerned,  is  but  the  mental  convic 
tion  we  feel  that  the  sequence  of  the  two  distinct 
events  will  be  the  same  to  the  end  of  all  time. 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  311 

Farther,  it  is  the  like  faculty  of  perceiving  the 
analogies  of  things  that  gives  us  our  sense  of  law 
in  nature,  and  which  confers  upon  us  that  power 
of  generalization  in  science  which  is  the  high- 
minded  equivalent  of  idealization  in  art ;  that 
power  of  typification  rather  than  individualiza- 
tion,  or  realization,  as  it  is  termed  (for  the  latter 
belongs  to  the  imitative  and  reproducing  form  of 
talent  rather  than  the  creative  faculty) ;  that  in 
ward  referring  of  all  things  to  the  spiritual '  form' 
that  exists  in  the  imagination  ;  that  mental  re 
garding  of  the  particular  thing  or  event,  not  as  a 
disjointed  or  disconnected  and  isolated  individual 
body,  but  as  part  of  a  vast  and  grand  whole — a 
single  thread  unraveled  from  a  mighty  net-work ; 
a  little  fragment,  let  us  add,  out  of  the  great  ka 
leidoscope,  which,  if  we  will  but  twist  and  turn  it 
over  and  over  with  the  rest,  is  sure  to  tumble  into 
the  most  perfect  form — the  choicest  symmetry. 
Indeed,"  the  old  man  proceeded,  "  it  is  this  per 
ception,  lad,  of  uniformity  in  variety — this  sim 
plification  of  complexity — this  sense  of  universal 
oneness  pervading  even  universal  infinity  itself, 
which  enables  the  mind  almost  to  comprehend 
the  incomprehensible.  It  is,  as  it  were,  the  one 
indivisible  and  unalterable  soul,  giving  the  sense 
of  identity  and  perpetual  unity,  amid  all  the 
changes  of  years,  to  the  entire  body  of  the  uni 
verse.  The  faculty  of  comprehension  enables  us 
to  grasp,  even  in  the  narrow  compass  of  our  nut 
shell  skulls,  the  endless  expanse  of  the  universe 
itself,  and  to  stow  away,  within  the  tiny  honey 
comb  cells  of  our  brains,  all  the  infinite  variety  of 
worlds  beyond  our  own,  and  all  the  same  infinite 
variety  of  different  objects,  elements,  forces,  and 
forms  of  life  and  beauty  that  make  up  the  vast 
complex  globe  on  which  we  live.  Then,  as  if  the 
very  conference  of  this  wondrous  power  on  our 


312  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

souls  was  not  sufficient  bounty,  the  Almighty  has 
superadded  the  mighty  sense  to  enjoy  it,  and  to 
feel  the  exquisite  mental  delight  that  has  been 
made  to  spring  from  the  use  of  the  faculty  itself 
— to  find  delight  in  that  wondrous  and  delicious 
state  of  ease  and  rest,  of  satisfaction,  contentment, 
ay,  and  thankfulness,  which  laps  the  spirit  in  a 
perfect  waking  trance  of  admiration. 

"  But,  though  the  faculty  of  comprehension  can 
do  this  for  us,  the  faculty  of  analogy,  or  the  per 
ception  of  uniformity  in  variety,  in  no  way  lags 
behind.  It  is  this  which  is  the  mental  sunshine 
of  the  world — for  it  is  not  alone  the  light,  but 
the  very  beauty  of  the  brain  ;  this  which  puts  to 
gether  the  disjointed  fragments  of  the  great  puz 
zle,  and  makes  a  lovely  picture  of  it  after  all ;  this 
which  tunes  the  jarring  strings  of  the  instrument 
into  the  grandest  harmony;  this  which  blends 
the  little  broken  bits  of  color  scattered  over  the 
earth  into  a  rainbow  ring,  where  the  greatest  di 
versity  melts  by  insensible  degrees  in  the  sweet 
est  unity ;  this  which  sets  the  house  in  order,  and 
decorates  it  with  its  choicest  ornaments;  this 
which  is  the  golden  thread  of  light  stretching 
from  heaven  to  earth,  and  uniting  the  world  of 
wonder  in  a  water-drop  even  with  the  world  of 
wonder  in  the  stars;  this  which  wreathes  the 
straggling  wild  flowers  of  seeming  accidents  into 
a  cunning  garland  of  exquisite  design ;  this  which 
gives  the  fine  touch  of  nature  that  makes  the 
whole  world  kin,  and  links  all  men,  nations,  and 
races  into  one  band  of  brotherhood,  hand  joined 
to  hand,  till  the  globe  itself  is  circled  with  the  hu 
man  chain ;  this,  in  fine,  which  makes  the  charm 
of  all  reason,  the  delight  of  all  poetry,  the  grace 
of  all  philanthropy,  the  glory  of  all  chivalry,  the 
dignity  of  all  art,  and,  indeed,  the  very  beauty 
of  all  the  beauty  that  encompasses  the  world." 


THE  NEXT  TUKNING.  313 


THE   PLEASURES    OF    AET. 

"  The  pleasure  produced  by  works  of  art  comes 
now,  I  think  you  said,"  observed  the  youth,  as  he 
found  his  uncle  pause  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"  It  does,  Ben ;  and,  to  understand  this,  we 
must  revert  for  a  short  while  to  the  special  qual 
ities  of  the  sense  of  effort,"  replied  the  old  man. 
"  You  remember,  my  boy,  that  I  told  you  effort 
was  mostly  irksome  and  occasionally  painful; 
while,  if  long  sustained,  it  was  fatiguing,  and  ul 
timately  overpowering ;  for  effort  means  that  vio 
lent  or  laborious  exertion  of  our  powers  which  is 
necessary  to  master  some  heavy  task,  or  overcome 
some  great  difficulty.  The  moderate  exercise  of 
the  power  within  us  is,  however,  by  no  means  dis 
agreeable  to  us,  as,  indeed,  we  have  seen  in  the 
simple  pleasure  derived  from  gentle  physical  exer 
cise  itself.  There  is  assuredly  an  innate  delight 
in  making  our  muscles  answer,  as  they  do,  imme 
diately  to  the  dictates  of  our  will — the  same  kind 
of  delight  as  you  find,  Master  Ben,  in  making  a 
boat  answer  readily  to  its  helm,  or  a  steed  to  the 
bridle ;  and  this  inherent  gratification  can  often  be 
noted  in  the  smiles  of  a  baby,  as  it  begins  to  learn 
the  use  of  its  tiny  hands,  and  in  the  little  peals  of 
hearty  laughter  that  burst  out  when  it  begins  to 
find  it  can  toddle  a  few  paces  alone.  It  is  this 
delight  in  one's  power,  too,  which  makes  up  the 
large  human  pleasure  of  success,  though  success 
itself  is  so  often  connected  with  the  attainment  of 
some  worldly  good  that  the  simple  charm  of  suc 
ceeding  is  generally  inflamed  into  an  exulting 
emotion  of  joy  at  our  own  worldly  prosperity. 
Nevertheless,  our  sporting  friend  could  have  told 
you,  lad,  the  pleasure  there  is  to  be  found  in  mere 
ly  hitting  the  mark  one  aims  at ;  in  sending  an 
arrow  pat  into  the  bull's-eye ;  in  throwing  a  pen- 


S14  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

ny  piece  into  the  air,  and  striking  it  with  a  bullet 
as  it  falls  ;  in  snuffing  a  candle  with  a  dueling-pis 
tol;  in  walking  along  particular  cracks  in  the 
pavement,  or  balancing  a  straw  upon  the  nose,  or 
even  in  mastering  the  slightest  possible  difficulty. 
It  is  the  simple  stimulus  of  gaining  such  poor  tri 
umphs  as  these  that  stirs  people  to  take  to  prac 
ticing  the  arduous  physical  feats  indulged  in  by 
your  tight-rope  dancers,  posturers,  equilibrists, 
circus-riders,  sleight-of-hand  men,  and  so  on,  and 
this  also  which  makes  the  vulgar  find  such  in 
tense  delight  in  the  exhibition  of  such  feats  of 
bodily  agility.  Indeed,  every  one  is  charmed 
with  any  work  of '  skill'  or  subtlety,  either  of  fin 
gers,  limbs,  or  brain ;  for  we  are  pleased  not  only 
with  the  exercise  of  our  own  power,  but  even 
with  the  display  of  power  in  others.  Neverthe 
less,  to  be  impressed  with  the  full  force  of  this 
kind  of  enjoyment,  two  things  are  essential:  one 
is,  that  we  should  have  a  perfect  sense  of  the  dif 
ficulty  of  the  task,  and  the  other,  of  comparative 
ease  in  accomplishing  it.  If  there  be  no  sense  of 
difficulty,  of  course  there  will  be  no  sense  of  pow 
er  in  the  mastering  of  it,  for  it  is  merely  the  op 
posing  force  without  that  makes  us  conscious  of 
the  action  of  the  force  within.  Indeed,  it  is  this 
feeling  of  opposition  from  without  which  gives  us 
our  sense  of  eifort  itself.  But  this  sense  of  effort 
— this  sense  which  is  made  up  of  the  double  con 
sciousness  of  hard  external  resistance  to  our  will, 
and  of  strenuous  internal  exertion  and  determina 
tion  to  crush  the  obstacle  to  our  wishes  —  is  by 
no  means  an  agreeable  feeling,  or  one  that  con 
sorts  with  our  nature ;  nay,  it  is  obvious  that  it 
must  be  antagonistic  to  it.  Hence  the  enjoy 
ment  we  derive  from  the  exercise  of  power  lies, 
not  in  the  act  of  overcoming  the  difficulties,  but  in 
the  fact  of  their  being  overcome ;  and  therefore, 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  315 

the  easier  the  work  is  done,  that  is  to  say,  the 
greater  the  work  which  has  been  done,  and  the 
less  sense  of  labor  we  have  in  the  doing  of  it,  the 
greater  the  enjoyment  we  experience  regarding 
it.  This  is  the  reason  why  a  sketch  is  often  more 
beautiful  to  us  than  a  highly-finished  miniature  or 
elaborate  Dutch  painting  ;  for,  in  the  one,  the  ef 
fect  is  often  gained  by  one  bold  stroke,  as  it  were, 
while  in  the  other  we  can  see  the  million  finikin 
touches  that  have  been  niggled  into  it.  It  is  this 
sense  of  ease,  combined  with  power,  that  makes 
freedom  of  execution  always  so  pleasant,  even  as 
it  is  the  opposite  idea  of  fatigue  that  renders  elab 
oration  so  disagreeable  to  us,  as  well  as  the  per 
formances  of  posture-masters  and  tight-rope  dan 
cers  so  unpleasant  to  refined  natures,  owing  to 
the  sense  of  painfulness  or  danger  that  they  force 
upon  us.  Do  you  understand,  my  little  man  ?" 

"I  think  I  can,  a  bit,"  was  the  diffident  reply. 
"  But,  uncle,  what  has  this  to  do  with  the  pleas 
ure  we  get  from  looking  at  works  of  art  ?  There 
isn't  any  power  wanted  for  art,  is  there  ?  for  I'm 
sure  the  artist  we  saw  was  a  weak  little  man 
enough." 

"  The  meaning  of  the  word  art,  my  dear  boy,  is 
simply  power,  even  as  an  in-ert  man  means  a  man 
without  power  or  energy,"  answered  the  tutor. 

"But  I  thought  art  meant  cunning,"  urged 
young  Ben. 

The  uncle  replied,  "And  so  it  does ;  like  craft^ 
which,  however,  signifies  literally  creation  or  sa 
gacity.*  But  cunning,  my  lad,  is  simply  kenning 

*  The  Saxon  word  Crceft  signified  power,  force,  intelli 
gence.  The  Germans,  Swedes,  and  Danes  have  the  same 
word,  written  Kraft,  and  meaning  power,  strength,  or  en 
ergy.  The  British  equivalent  for  this  is  Crev,  strong,  and 
this  is  connected  with  the  Welsh  verb  CrSu,  to  create  (Tat. 
Oreo),  and  with  Crafu,  to  hold,  comprehend,  perceive ;  whence 
Crafus,  sagacious,  of  quick  perception. 


316  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

or  knowing;  and  knowledge  is  power  —  intel 
lectual  power — the  power  within  us ;  the  innate 
power  of  our  souls  and  will,  made  to  act  through 
the  muscles  of  our  mind  rather  than  through 
those  of  our  body.  The  muscles  are  merely  the 
instruments  with  which  we  work — the  visible  and 
palpable  tools  we  employ  to  overcome  some  phys 
ical  difficulty,  while  the  intellect,  the  imagination, 
the  wit,  the  reason,  are  the  invisible  and  impalpa 
ble  weapons  with  which  we  conquer  mental  ob 
stacles." 

"  Oh,  I  see  now,"  murmured  Ben. 

"  Well,  then,  lad,  to  appreciate — to  thoroughly 
and  fully  enjoy  any  work  of  high  art,"  the  god 
father  went  on,  "  we  must  be  conscious  of  the 
inordinate  power  of  the  artist ;  that  is  to  say,  we 
must  feel  at  once  the  inordinate  difficulty  of  doing 
such  work,  and  the  inordinate  ease  with  which 
the  work  has  been  done." 

"  But  how  can  I  feel  all  this,  uncle,  if  I  don't 
know  what  the  difficulty  was  that  the  artist  had 
to  get  over,  and  whether  he  did  the  work  readily 
or  not  ?"  argued  the  pupil. 

"  Of  course  you  can't  feel  it  if  you  have  no 
knowledge  of  the  matter,  Ben ;  and  if  you  are  in 
sensible  to  the  high  art  of  the  artist,  of  course  you 
can't  expect  to  have  any  high  enjoyment  from  his 
works ;"  such  was  the  simple  reply.  "  It  is  the 
same  with  the  vulgar,  my  little  man — and  there 
are  vulgar  rich,  remember,  as  well  as  vulgar  poor 
— they  are  utterly  dead  and  numb  to  one  of  the 
purest,  sweetest,  and  cheapest  delights  of  human 
life,  and  that  simply  because  they  "have  no  sense 
of  art  or  artist  in  the  great  artistic  works  of 
the  world.  To  them  a  gallery  of  fine  paintings 
is  merely  a  collection  of  pretty  eye-toys,  and  it  de 
lights  them  about  as  much  as  a  child  is  delighted 
with  the  pictures  of  a  magic-lantern ;  a  fine  work 


THE   NEXT  TUKNING.  317 

of  fiction  is  to  them  nothing  more  than  a  pleasant 
dream ;  a  fine  poem  simply  a  mellifluent  succes 
sion  of  pretty  images  and  flowery  figures ;  and  a 
fine  piece  of  music  a  mere  agreeable  tickling  of 
the  tympanum.  Such  folk  have  no  more  elevated 
gratification  from  the  contemplation  of  works  of 
art  than  they  have  from  the  taste  of  a  dainty  dish 
set  before  them.  They  see  the  canvas  only,  Ben, 
and  not  the  artist  at  the  back  of  it ;  they  look 
upon  the  bright  bits  of  nature  without  any  sense 
of  the  God  that  created  them;  and  hence  the 
tendency  of  all  art,  with  low  artists  who  work  to 
please  the  vulgar,  is  to  sink  into  mere  pretty  sub 
jects.*  With  the  higher  craftsmen,  however,  pret- 

*  This  subject-painting  rather  than  art-painting  is  the  great 
pictorial  vice  of  the  day,  and  a  signal  evidence  of  mediocrity 
in  the  painters  who  resort  to  it.  Of  course,  if  a  man  have 
not  innate  power  enough  to  impress  others  with  that  admira 
tion  of  his  genius  which  makes  up  the  true  art-reverence,  he 
must  adopt  some  extrinsic  method  of  producing  an  effect,  see 
ing  that  he  has  no  intrinsic  merit  of  his  own  whereby  to  com 
pass  it.  A  tricky  subject  is  chosen  merely  as  the  means  of 
hiding  impotent  art.  When  a  painter  finds  he  can  not  paint 
to  please  the  choice  critical  few  who  demand  the  display  of 
something  like  power  in  a  picture,  why  then  he  begins  to  paint 
to  please  the  vulgar,  purblind  many,  who  have  no  sense  of 
artistic  power  even  when  it  is  set  before  them,  and  to  whom 
a  picture  is  only  a  picture. 

"  A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more." 

It  is  the  same  with  the  powerful  subjects  of  the  French 
school.  Details  that  are  naturally  disgusting,  of  course,  stir 
the  soul  more  or  less  on  being  contemplated,  and  the  emotion 
thus  produced  by  the  mere  natural  action  of  the  disgusting 
details  themselves  the  indiscriminate  mind  fancies  to  have  pro 
ceeded  from  the  power  of  the  artist  himself,  whereas  such  sub 
jects  as  are  naturally  "powerful"  and  "stirring"  are  a  sure 
sign  of  weakness  in  the  man  who  selects  them.  Depend  upon 
it,  the  individual  who  has,  and  feels  he  has,  the  true  artist 
power  within  himself,  always  strives  to  bring  the  power  of  his 
picture  out  of  himself,  and  hates  to  produce  a  "powerful"  ef- 


318  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

tiness  of  subject  obtains  little  or  no  consideration. 
The  artistry  of  a  thing — that  is  to  say,  its  fitness 

feet  by  resorting  to  subjects  that  are  "  powerful"  per  ipsa. 
The  trickster,  however,  who  has  no  capital  to  trade  upon,  must 
get  credit  by  hook  or  by  crook  ;  and  if  he  can  not  have  what 
he  wants,  by  honest  means,  out  of  the  experienced  and  know 
ing,  why  he  must,  perforce,  fly  to  the  "yokels,"  and  obtain 
his  fame  under  false  pretenses.  As  examples  of  this  tawdry, 
trumpery,  loathsome,  canting,  sniveling,  driveling,  "stirring," 
"charming,"  "elevating,"  "reclining,"  teachy-preachy,  in 
ert  kind  of  art,  we  may  remind  the  reader  of  the  band  of 
abbey  singing-boys  in  night-gowns,  represented  as  bawling 
"WE  PRAISE  THEE,  O  LORD."  Then  there  is  the  sublime 
bit  of  devotion  in  false  colors  called  "READING  THE  SCRIP 
TURES,"  where  we  have  a  Quaker  and  his  wife  seated  at  a 
loo-table,  on  which  is  an  outspread  Bible  and  a  glaring  sinum- 
bral  lamp!  "The  ELEVENTH  HOUR"  is  another  specimen 
of  the  modern  Cantesque  style  of  painting.  Then  there  is 
also  the  Sentimentesque  school  of  art,  done  to  please  the  young 
ladies  and  their  dear  mammas ;  such  as  we  find  in  the  sea- 
pieces  of  "Mr  CHILD  I  MY  CHILD!"  and  its  " lovely  com 
panion,"  entitled,  u  THEY'RE  SAVED!  THEY'RE  SAVED! "and 
also  "  THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN."  The  last,  however,  is 
really  too  rich,  as  an  illustration  of  the  sniveling,  driveling 
school  of  painting,  to  pass  by  with  merely  a  cursory  notice. 
This  picture  consists  of  a  weeping  young  lady  on  her  knees 
in  a  church-yard  beside  a  mound  of  earth,  at  the  head  of 
which  is  a  grave-stone  inscribed  as  follows :  "  SACRED  TO 
THE  MEMORY  OF  SARAH,  THE  BELOVED  WIFE  of  the  REV. 
HABBAKUK  BELL,  MANY  YEARS  RECTOR  OF  THIS  PAR 
ISH,"  etc.,  etc.  ;  so  that  by  this  clever  and  delicate  stroke  of 
suggestive  art  we  are  made  to  understand  that  the  pretty  young 
lady  on  her  knees,  with  her  bonnet  half  oft',  and  a  tear-drop 
on  her  cheek  as  big  as  the  pendant  to  a  French  fish- woman's 
ear-rings  (in  order  to  give  us  a  double  idea  of  the  intense 
mental  anguish  of  the  poor  dear),  is  Miss  Rosa  Matilda  Bell 
herself.  Then  we  are  farther  let  into  the  pictorial  secret  by 
means  of  a  bouncing  babby — which  Miss  R.  M.  Bell  has,  in 
the  fury  of  her  grief  apparently,  thrown  headlong  (poor  thing!) 
upon  the  ground  beside  her — that  this  same  young  lady  is  not 
only  Miss  Bell  of  the  bouncing  tear-drop,  but  Miss  Bell  of  the 
bouncing  babby  too ;  and  that  she  is  no  less  a  person  than  the 
"  Wanderer"  to  whom  the  picture  refers.  Now  the  artist,  in 
true  parsonic  style,  having  divided  his  pictorial  text  into  three 
words,  and  illustrated  two  of  them,  proceeds  in  due  form  to 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  319 

for  displaying  the  peculiar  power  of  the  artist — 
is  sufficient  for  them,  and  hence  even  ugliness  it- 

—  "thirdly,  and  lastly"  —  illustrate  the  final  word  of  the 
"  title,"  viz.,  to  make  out  the  return.  This  is  achieved  also 
in  the  highest  style  of  true  Sentimentesque  painting.  In  the 
background  of  the  picture  is  shown  the  open  church-yard 
gate,  with  the  path  leading  to  the  darling  old  ivied  rectory  in 
the  distance ;  and  down  this  pathway  we  see  an  elderly  cler 
ical-looking  gentleman,  with  long  silver  hair,  and  apparently 
a  touch  of  gout  in  his  left  leg,  coming  along,  with  his  head 
bent  and  his  eyes  shut,  as  if  he  were  about  to  say  "  grace  be 
fore  dinner;"  and  whom  we  no  sooner  set  eyes  upon  than  we 
feel  satisfied,  though  we  never  saw  the  rev.  gentleman  before 
in  all  our  lives  (and  never  wish  to  do  so  again,  we  may  add 
aside),  that  it  is  no  less  a  person  than  the  Rev.  Habbakuk 
Bell  himself;  for  the  black  hat-band  so  dexterously  thrown 
round  his  broad  brim  tells  us,  or  rather  let  us  say  hints  to  us, 
in  the  most  subtle  and  poetic  manner,  that  the  rev.  gentleman 
is  free  to  indulge  in  a  second  marriage  Bell  if  he  please  ;  and 
that  "  Sarah,  the  beloved,"  whose  virtues  are  recorded  on  the 
tomb-stone  that  sticks  up,  like  a  sign-post,  right  in  the  front 
of  the  picture,  was  Ms  beloved  Sarah.  Nor  is  this  all :  ac 
companying  the  disconsolate  and  gouty  Rev.  H.  Bell  ("  many 
years  rector  of  this  parish")  is  a  young  lady  whom  the  same 
pictorial  instinct  assures  us,  directly  we  see  her,  is  another  of 
"them  blessed  Bells,"  as  the  servants  say,  and  that  she  has 
discovered  her  naughty  sister  Rosy  in  the  church-yard,  and 
induced  the  silver-hair  Bell  to  hobble  down  there  and  forgive 
her,  now  that  she  has  "  returned" — after  an  absence  of  eleven 
months  at  least. 

Now  this  is  the  worst  possible  style  of  art — this,  we  repeat, 
sniveling,  driveling,  loathsome,  canting,  stirring,  charming, 
elevating,  "refining,"  preachy-teachy  style  as  it  is,  and  com 
pared  with  which  the  fine  honest  old  tea-board  school  is  a 
manly  achievement.  Belonging  to  this  class,  again,  are  the 
"pretty-story"  pairs  of  prints,  such  as  "THE  DEPARTURE" 
and  "THE  RETURN,"  as  well  as  "  GOING  WITH  THE  STREAM" 
and  "  GOING  AGAINST  THE  STREAM."  Under  the  same  trashy 
category,  too,  must  be  named  "THE  HEART'S  MISGIVINGS," 
and  the  "LAST  APPEAL,"  and  "CROSS  PURPOSES,"  et  id 
genus  omne.^  Such  pictures,  again,  as  "WAITING  FOR  THE 
VERDICT,"  and  your  "RAMSGATE  SANDS,"  and  "DERBY 
DAYS,"  and  "FOUND  DROWNED,"  are  no  more  painting  than 
reporting  all  the  minute  incidents  of  her  majesty's  trip  to 
Scotland  is  either  a  poem,  a  drama,  or  a  romance.  Again, 


320  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIJST. 

self  is  often  selected  as  the  material  to  be  adorned 
by  them  ;  for,  in  the  fairy  work  of  true  art,  the 

the  "profound"  touches  of  other  artists  belong  to  the  same 
kind  of  trick-art,  such  as  Holman  Hunt's  cut  apple  lying  in 
the  foreground,  which  is  shown  to  be  rotten  at  the  core  (how 
subtle!),  and  Herbert's  " CHRIST  IN  THE  CARPENTER'S 
SHOP,"  with  the  fallen  planks  arranged  in  the  form  of  a  cross 
at  his  feet  (how  suggestive !) — all  which  we  are  told  is  so 
"wonderfully  deep."  Such  clap-trap  stuff  as  this  has  no 
more  right  to  rank  with  the  achievements  of  high  art,  than 
has  one  of  Tom  Hood's  rude  sketches,  where  the  pencil  was 
always  made  to  convey  an  idea  of  some  sort,  ay,  and  oftener 
a  much  more  cunning  idea  than  such  mere  surface  tricks  as 
those  above  described.  How  different  was  it  with  the  really 
grand  men  of  former  times!  In  Rubens'  "DESCENT  FROM 
THE  CROSS,"  for  instance,  that  we  see  at  Antwerp  Cathe 
dral,  there  is  no  petty  artifice  to  give  us  a  show  of  profound 
thinking,  but  only  a  display  of  profound  picturesque  percep 
tion,  and  profound  power  and  grace  in  rendering  it.  The 
man  straining  over  the  top  of  the  cross,  with  the  end  of  the 
winding-sheet  between  his  teeth,  as  he  helps  to  lower  the 
dead  body  from  above ;  the  huddled  form  of  the  calm  and 
dignified  corpse  itself;  and  the  soldier  on  the  ladder  assist 
ing  to  support  the  heavy,  powerless  limbs — these  are  all  given 
with  such  intrinsic  force,  and  such  utter  absence  of  extrinsic 
trick,  while  the  ' '  powerful"  details,  that  in  the  hands  of  a 
poor  painter  would  have  been  exaggerated  to  loathsomeness, 
are  here  so  finely  subdued  and  veiled,  that  we  feel,  the  instant 
we  look  upon  it,  we  are  standing  in  the  presence  of  a  mighty 
artistic  mind.  So,  again,  what  wonderful  vigor  of  drawing 
and  portrayal  of  the  human  form — in  a  position  that  it  was 
impossible  to  have  had  a  model  to  sit  for,  mark — is  exhibited 
in  the  "CRUCIFIXION  OF  ST.  PETER"  with  his  head  down 
ward,  by  the  same  master !  and  yet  the  end  is  compassed 
without  a  touch  of  revolting  or  "stirring"  minutiaj  in  the 
means.  Farther,  what  subject  can  be  less  pretty  or  even  nice 
than  Gerard  Dow's  "WATER  DOCTOR?"  and  yet,  was  it 
the  prurience  of  such  a  subject,  think  you,  that  tickled  the 
great  Dutch  artist,  or  the  fine  play  of  light  in  the  beam  through 
the  window — the  lustre  of  the  upheld  bottle  as  the  sun  falls 
on  it — and  the  wonderful  scrutiny  in  the  upturned  face  of  the 
old  doctor  himself?  Such  subjects  are  purely  picturesque 
ones,  and  those  who  see  only  the  opposite  in  them  have  no 
sense  of  the  picturesque  in  nature,  nor  any  soul  for  art,  either 
in  the  works  of  man  or  God.  The  same  thing  may  be  said 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  321 

Beauty  can  be  wed  to  the  Beast,  and  yet  none  feel 
offended  at  the  marriage.  Take  the  works  of 

of  Rembrandt's  grand  picture  of  "Trie  DISSECTION."  No 
subject  could  be  more  innately  repulsive,  and  yet  to  an  artistic 
eye  none  could  be  more  picturesque,  and  no  painting  at  the 
same  time  more  forcible  and  less  offensive ;  for  the  details 
that  a  French  artist  would  have  reveled  in,  and  done  to  gan 
grene,  as  we  have  said,  are  finely  kept  in  the  background ; 
the  dead  recumbent  body  being  thrown  aslant  across  the  pic 
ture,  and  half  concealed  by  the  figures  of  the  doctors  group 
ed  in  front  of  it,  and  the  raw  muscles  of  the  arm  only  ex 
posed  to  bring  out  the  fine  rich  contrast  of  the  crimson  flesh 
with  the  black  gowns.  What  is  your  pre-Raphaelite  picto 
rial-reporting  beside  such  mighty  visions  as  these  ?  If  the 
painting  of  every  particular  blade  of  grass,  and  making  out 
of  the  several  stamina  of  each  little  flower  in  the  foreground, 
and  giving  the  peculiar  geological  texture  to  all  the  foremost 
bits  of  rock — if  to  be  "botanically  and  geologically  true"  is 
the  great  art-object,  why,  then,  the  wonderful  literality  and 
texture-work  of  the  photograph  must  be  infinitely  finer  than 
any  landscape  ever  painted  by  Turner,  Gainsborough,  Hob- 
bemer,  Poussin,  or  Salvator  Rosa  himself.  But  the  fact  is, 
this  "truth"  of  detail  is  no  truth  at  all,  but  downright  picto 
rial  falsity.  Why,  it  may  be  asked,  should  artists  make  out 
the  separate  blades  of  grass — each  flower-stamen,  and  the  pe 
culiar  rock-granulation  in  the  foreground  only  ?  Why  not 
in  the  distance  also  ?  (Do  not  laugh  at  the  absurdity  of  such 
a  question,  but  proceed.)  The  answer,  of  course,  will  be, 
The  eye  could  not  possibly  see  distant  objects  distinctly.  No 
more,  we  add,  can  it  see  objects  distinctly  in  the  foreground 
either,  when  it  is  fixed  or  focused  (for  they  are  optically  the 
same  things,  and  metaphysically  something  more)  upon  the 
principal  object  of  attention.  If  a  true  picture  of  some  one 
scene  in  nature  is  to  be  painted  rather  than  a  thousand  and 
one  portraits  of  the  thousand  and  one  minute  and  insignifi 
cant  details  that  go  to  make  up  such  a  scene  in  the  broad 
view  of  the  landscape,  then  every  collateral  object  must  be 
toned  down  to  the  one  on  which  the  eye  is  meant  to  rest,  and 
where,  and  where  alone  (from  the  very  focusing  of  the  eye 
upon  it),  the  great  intensity  of  light  and  shade,  and  conse 
quently  the  distinct  making  out  of  particulars,  will  be  visible. 
Every  artist  is  aware  that  the  great  difficulty  is  to  prevent- 
making  out  the  forms  and  colors  of  known  objects  in  the  dis 
tance  ;  or,  in  other  words,  the  difficulty  is  to  paint  them  as 
they  are  seen  in  the  general  view,  rather  than  as  they  are 

X 


322  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

Shakspeare  himself:  why,  the  mere  subjects  of  his 
finest  plays— '  Macbeth,'  'Othello,'  'Lear,'  'Ham- 
known  to  be  when  studied  by  themselves.  And  so  we  say 
artists  have  yet  to  paint  the  objects  in  the  foreground  as  they 
really  are  seen  when  viewed  in  harmony  with  the  principal 
object  in  the  picture,  and  not  as  they  are  seen  and  known  to 
be  when  studied  specially  and  separately.  But  as  it  is,  the 
foreground  of  your  pre-Kaphaelitc  pictures  is  as  untrue  to 
nature,  ay,  and  as  barbarous  too,  as  Chinese  backgrounds. 
This  portrait-painting  of  each  simple  thing  in  a  complex 
mass ;  this  reduction  of  all  the  details  of  a  composite  living 
landscape— that  has  always  a  special  feeling  underlying  and 
spiritualizing,  as  well  as  substantializing  the  whole — down  to 
the  senseless  literality  of  so  many  distinct  items  of  still  life  ; 
this  giving  us  a  hundred  different  isolate  pictures  of  a  hund 
red  different  isolate  objects  where  only  one  picture  of  one 
compound  object  is  needed ;  this  painting  of  heaven  knows 
how  many  disjointed  groups  of  people  in  "  Ramsgate  Sands," 
for  instance,  and  giving  to  every  one  of  the  manifold  faces 
making  up  all  the  manifold  little  cliques  there  each  the  same 
marked  distinctness  of  feature  and  expression  as  the  other, 
and  making  them  out  to  be  all  doing  and  meaning  something 
apart  from  the  rest  (even  down  to  the  model  Italian  boy  with 
the  model  white  mice  themselves),  and  then  calling  it'a  pic 
ture  of  the  place,  when  it  is  no  more  one  picture  than  is  the 
succession  of  conjoint  "flats"  which  make  up  a  theatrical  di 
orama,  and  believing  that  it  is  any  thing  like  a  composition 
when  there  is  not  even  the  vaguest  attempt  at  fusing  and  in- 
terblending  the  rude  and  undigested  mass  or  perfect  chaos 
of  divers  and  diverse  particulars  into  the  broad  and  harmo 
nious  entirety  of  perfect  creation ;  in  fine,  this  giving  to  ac 
cessories  and  subordinates  the  same  luminous  and  chromatic 
importance,  the  same  black  and  white  distinctness  of  detail, 
and  the  same  delicacy  of  manipulation  and  finish  as  the  prin 
cipal  object  itself;  this  servile  copying  of  model  legs  of  mut 
ton  (as  Wilkie  used)  for  pictorial  legs  of  mutton  that  were 
merely  wanted  to  break  up  the  formality  of  the  rack  under 
the  ceiling,  and  which  the  eye  could  not  possibly  have  seen 
while  looking  at  the  main  characters  on  the  ground  below — 
all  this,  we  urge,  is  another  of  the  crying  pictorial  vices,  and, 
indeed,  general  artistic  vices  of  the  time.  And  it  is  one  which 
the  false  doctrine  of  modern  art-preachers  is  tending  to  drive 
even  farther  still  into  the  mere  literalities  of  reality,  rather 
than  to  lead  young  artists  into  the  ideal  beauty  of  general 
nature  as  opposed  to  particular  truth.  Such  false  doctrine 


THE   NEXT  TUENING.  823 

let,'  the  'Merchant  of  Venice' —  are  morally  re 
volting,  and  such  as,  if  enacted  in  the  world  about 
us  now,  would  stir  even  the  dullard  to  the  high 
est  pitch  of  indignation.  And  yet,  graced  by  the 
touches  of  this  mighty,  masterly  hand,  the  moral 
monstrosity  becomes  transformed  into  a  high  in 
tellectual  beauty ;  the  natural  loathsomeness  into 
the  finest  artificial  feast ;  even  as  the  manure  it 
self  is  changed  by  the  subtlety  of  mysterious  na 
ture  into  food  and  flowers,  or  as  blood  is  used  in 
certain  industrial  processes  to  produce  the  high 
est  possible  refinement.  So,  again,  I  have  heard 
the  Dutchmen  in  our  town,  Ben,  say  that  Rem 
brandt's  great  picture  of  the  Dissection  is  a  per 
fect  visual  banquet  of  color ;  and  even  though  it 
is  the  most  repulsive  of  all  subjects,  they  assure 
me  that  the  eye  forgets  the  mangled  corpse  upon 
the  canvas,  and  sees  only,  in  the  wondrous  con 
trast  of  the  crimson  hues  of  the  raw  muscles  of 
the  arm,  and  the  yellow,  cadaverous  complexion 
of  the  body,  contrasted  with  the  black  gowns  of 

is  a  mistake,  which  proceeds  from  the  fundamental  mistak 
ing  of  the  very  nature  of  truth  itself,  confounding,  as  it  does, 
that  which  is  mere  fact,  or  mere  particular,  bare,  bald  letter- 
truth  with  law  and  harmony  or  order  and  fitness,  which  is 
the  universal  and  enlightened  spirit-truth  of  things.  It  is 
this  modern  artistic  fallacy  and  consequent  falsity  that  makes 
our  pictures  of  the  present  day  (with  hardly  one  really  grand 
exception)  such  gaudy,  fluttering,  butterfly  bits  of  color  for 
the  eye  to  look  upon,  instead  of  being  the  fine,  steadfast,  and 
satisfying  points  of  visual  rest  like  the  grand  paintings  of 
old.  Compare,  for  instance,  the  sublime  repose  and  har 
mony  of  Rembrandt's  picture  of  the  "Woman  taken  in  Adul 
tery,"  that  one  sees  at  Rotterdam,  and  the  rich  clear-obscure 
of  its  foreground,  with  the  pictorial  riot,  chaos,  and  hard 
chalkiness  of  M'Clise's  "Robin  Hood,"  and  then  surely  none 
but  the  purblind  and  the  tasteless  will  doubt  for  an  instant 
that  our  own  great  artists  have  for  many  a  long  year  "  erred 
and  strayed  from  their  ways  like  lost  sheep,"  and,  moreover, 
that  the  Shepherd  of  Modern  Painters  is  not  exactly  the  man 
to  bring  the  flock  back  to  the  fold. 


324  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

the  doctors  grouped  about  it,  the  soul  of  the  paint 
er,  reveling  in  the  fine  chromatic  harmony.  The 
lollipop  school  of  art,  my  boy,  is  the  most  sickly 
and  childish  of  all,  and  tickles  the  taste  of  those 
only  who  admire  a  picture  as  they  would  a  paper- 
hanging,  for  being  a  sightly  covering  to  a  blank 
wall." 

"  But,  uncle,"  asked  young  Ben,  who  was  still 
at  a  loss  to  comprehend  why  so  few  should  be 
able  to  have  a  knowledge  of  art,  "  how  do  people 
ever  get  to  be  impressed  with  a  sense  of  this  pow 
er  and  ease,  as  you  call  it,  in  an  artist.  They 
haven't  seen  him  doing  the  work,  and  they  surely 
can't  tell  whether  he  found  it  hard  or  easy  to  do 
it  then?" 

"  Indeed,  Master  Ben !  Well,  let  us  see,"  said 
the  uncle,  in  reply.  "  The  strong  men  you  have 
seen,  boy,  in  the  shows  at  Boston  fair,  whirling 
hundredweights  about  their  heads  with  the  same 
ease  as  you  would  so  many  bladders,  and  bending 
bars  of  iron  as  if  they  were  twigs,  you  knew  to 
be  men  of  great  muscular  power,  because  you 
were  conscious  that  you  yourself  would  have 
broken  your  little  back  before  you  could  have 
lifted  the  heavy  masses  of  metal  they  did,  and, 
moreover,  because  you  were  eye- witness  to  the 
comparative  ease  with  which  they  lifted  them; 
that  is  to  say,  so  far  as  your  eye  could  detect, 
there  was  no  straining  to  compass  the  effect,  nor 
any  ostensible  sign  of  heavy  labor  in  the  work. 
Every  one  is  a  natural  critic  of  such  feats  as  these, 
my  boy,  because  they  know,  from  their  own  ev- 
ery-day  experience,  how  infinitely  the  task  sur 
passes  their  own  physical  powers.  And  then,  if 
they  think  physical  power  in  man  an  admirable 
thing,  they  will  admire  the  mighty  strong  fellow ; 
they  will  look  up  to  him  with  a  kind  of  half-rev 
erence  and  half-love,  not  only  because  the  might 


THE   NEXT  TUKNING.  325 

that  is  in  him  is  so  much  greater  than  their  own 
might,  but  because  of  the  ease,  and,  therefore,  the 
comparative  grace  with  which  he  accomplishes 
the  mightiest  tasks." 

"  I  begin  to  see  what  you  mean  now,"  mutter 
ed  the  youth,  as  he  chewed  the  cud  of  the  prob 
lem. 

"Well,  lad,"  the  other  proceeded,  "  of  physical 
feats  most  people  are  born  critics,  because  the 
physical  power  in  such  matters  is  often  self-evi 
dent.  We  all  feel  and  know,  almost  instinctively 
and  intuitively,  that  we  couldn't  swallow  sabres, 
or  jump  through  hoops  off  a  galloping  horse's 
back,  or  dance  the  Highland  fling  upon  a  wire 
some  hundred  feet  high  in  the  air  amid  a  shower 
of  fire-works." 

The  boy  couldn't  help  smiling  at  the  obvious 
truths  of  the  argument. 

"Again,  Benjamin,  there  are  other  feats  of  skill, 
rather  than  art,  that  almost  every  person  can  ap 
preciate  naturally ;"  and  as  the  old  man  said  the 
words,  the  boy  turned  toward  him,  eager  for  the 
illustration.  "  Almost  every  one,  for  instance," 
said  Uncle  Ben,  "  can  appreciate  the  art  or  skill 
of  simple  imitation.  I  do  not  mean  merely  enjoy 
the  resemblance  produced  (since  that  depends,  as 
I  have  shown  you,  on  an  entirely  different  sus 
ceptibility  of  our  nature),  but  I  do  mean  that  they 
can  have  a  feeling  at  the  same  time  of  greater  or 
less  admiration  for  the  person  producing  the  en 
joyment  ;  for  it  is  this  feeling  of  admiration — this 
turning  of  the  mind  toward  the  human  cause  of 
our  delight,  and  having  a  sense  of  greater  or  less 
wonder  at  his  superior  power,  that  makes  up  the 
feeling  of  artistry— that  is  to  say,  of  respect,  and 
even  reverence  for  the  artist-power.  The  child, 
when  it  perceives  the  shadowy  likeness  of  the  rab 
bit  on  the  wall,  Ben,  and  finds  out  that  the  long 


32G  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FJRANKLIN. 

black  moving  ears,  and  bright  white  eye  that 
keeps  winking  at  it,  are  produced  by  its  father's 
fingers,  depend  upon  it,  looks  into  its  parent's 
face  with  a  mixture  of  love  and  wonder,  ay,  and 
of  awe  and  worship,  as  it  feels  its  first  spasm  of 
admiration  for  what  it  doubtlessly  believes  then 
to  be  a  work  of  prodigious  craft  and  skill.  The 
misfortune  is  that  half— nay,  lad,  more  than  three 
fourths  of  the  world  never  advance  in  artistic 
knowledge  and  sense  beyond  the  faculty  of  that 
little  child,  fascinated  with  the  wondrous  piece  of 
imitation,  and  thinking  that  work  a  high  artistic 
effort  which  is  but  a  mere  trick  of  the  finders  aft 
er  all." 

"  And  how  do  others  acquire  a  greater  knowl 
edge,  Uncle  Ben  ?"  inquired  his  nephew. 

"  Why, boy,"  the  answer  ran,  "  when  they  have 
had  their  fill  of  the  various  imitative  processes  in 
art,  and  wondered  till  they  have  no  longer  any 
wonder  left,  for  the  once-wonderful  artists  who 
delight  in  bits  of  4  still  life'  (in  the  painted  slice 
of  cheese,  for  instance,  with  the  mouse  about  to 
gnaw  it,  and  the  jug  of  foaming  ale  with  the 
crusty  loaf  behind) — for  the  musicians  who  excel 
in  the  reproduction  of  the  cries  of  the  entire  farm 
yard  on  the  fiddle  (the  braying  of  the  donkey — 
clucking  of  the  hen — cackling  of  the  geese — gob 
bling  of  the  turkeys,  and  crowing  of  the  cocks) — 
for  the  ventriloquists  who  glory  in  conversations 
with  invisible  old  cellarmen^far  under  ground,  and 
imaginary  bricklayers  up  chimneys,  knocking  out 
imaginary  bricks,  who  delight  in  frying  imagin 
ary  pancakes,  and  in  sawing  through  imaginary 
logs,  and  uncorking  and  decanting  imaginary  bot 
tles  of  wine — when,  lad,  we  have  been  surfeited 
with  these  mere  tricks  and  antics  of  human  cun 
ning,  and  found  out  that  the  powers  and  processes 
which  we  once  believed  so  transcendent,  because 


THE   NEXT  TUENING.  327 


we  knew  and  felt  they  were  far  beyond  what  ice 
ourselves  could  compass  at  the  time,  arc  no  such 
very  extraordinary  powers  after  all,  but  that,  on 
the  contrary,  in  the  wide  range  of  human  nature, 
the  faculty  for  imitation,  or  the  simple  outside  rep 
resentation  of  a  thing,  is  one  that  mere  ordinary 
power  of  mind  and  manipulation  is  sufficient  to 
compass— when  we  have  made  this  discovery,  I 
say,  we  go  on  continually  widening  the  circle  of 
our  experience,  and  comparing  one  signal  evidence 
of  human  power  with  another  in  each  ot  the  dif 
ferent  arts,  until  at  last  we  come  to  distinguish 
the  giants  from  the  pigmies  on  stilts — the  creators 
from  the  mere  reproducing  creatures;  and  end 
by  regarding  those  only  as  high  artists  who  dis 
play  the  most  inordinate  power  of  conception  and 
execution  in  their  works— power  that  can  triumph 
over  difficulties  that  would  be  overpowering  to 
ordinary  human  minds,  and   yet   triumph   over 
them  with  the  greatest  apparent  ease  and  grace. 
As  you  knew  the  power  of  the  strong  man  in  the 
show,  Ben,  instinctively  and  intuitively,  by  com 
paring  the  exhibition  of  his  power  with  your  own 
power,  and  also  with  that  of  the  ^most  powerful 
men  with  whom  you  were  acquainted,  and  then 
feeling  that  he  infinitely  transcended  them  all,  so 
with  the  mental  athlete ;  directly  we  are  conscious 
of  Ms  power — directly  we  know  and  feel  that  he 
can  snap  the  iron  chain  of  events  in  nature  as 
easily  as  a  silk-worm's  thread— that  he  can  crush 
the  adamantine  wall  of  circumstance  hemming  m 
our  lives  as  readily  as  a  wren's  nest  in  his  grasp 
—that  he  can  make  the  most  rigid  and  inflexible 
difficulties  in  his  path  as  supple  as  the  stems  of 
harebells— and,  indeed,  that,  like  Atlas  himself, 
he  can  stir  the  entire  world  with  the  force  of  his 
mere  will  as  though  it  were  a  soap-bubble  in  the 
air  driven  by  his  breath— directly  we  know  and 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

feel  all  this,  we  also  know  and  feel  that  we  are  the 
little  motes,  and  he  the  bright  and  sunny  beam 
from  heaven,  at  once  stirring  and  enlightening  us." 

"I  see!  I  see!"  exclaimed  the  boy,  thought 
fully,  as  he  inwardly  pondered  upon  the  high 
theme. 

"  The  pleasure  we  experience,  my  little  man," 
the  uncle  went  on,  "  in  contemplating  works  of 
high  art,  arises  not  only  from  the  intrinsic  beauty 
of  such  works  themselves,  but  from  that  fine  en 
joyment  which  springs  from  the  conception  of 
the  highest  power  exerted  with  the  greatest  ease, 
and  therefore  with  the  greatest  grace ;  for  high 
art  may  be  defined  to  be  the  voluntary  exercise 
of  high  power  with  little  or  no  effort,  even  as  the 
highest  art  is  that  sublime  exercise  of  the  Al 
mighty's  power  which  makes  creation  the  imme 
diate  consequence  of  the  mere  expression  of  the 
Almighty  will.  '  And  God  said,  Let  there  be 
light,  and  there  was  light.' 

"This  is  the  very  majesty  of  all  art, Ben.  It 
is  impossible  for  the  mind  to  conceive  any  thing 
requiring  greater  power  to  achieve,  and  yet  any 
thing  achieved  more  readily  or  more  sublime  in 
its  achievements.  The  stupendousness  and  love 
liness  of  the  work — the  flooding  of  all  creation 
in  an  instant  with  that  pellucid  fire-mist,  which 
forms  the  broad  sheet  of  luminous  matter  diffused 
throughout  the  world — the  stirring  of  the  entire 
universe  with  the  undulations  of  the  luminous 
ether-waves  from  one  end  of  space  to  the  other, 
circling  and  circling  round  the  central  point  of 
rest  like  the  rings  in  a  pool,  and  flashing  light 
every  where  immediately  in  response  to  the  great 
Will — immediately,  remember ! — without  any  in 
tervening  event ! — without  any  intermediate  work 
or  labor  to  compass  the  end ! — without  any  ma 
chinery  ! — without  any  delay ! — the  grand  out- 


THE   NEXT   TURNING. 

ward  result  following  as  momentarily  upon  the 
inward  determination  as  the  passing  thought  il 
luminates  the  countenance  of  man — this  gives  us, 
lad,  not  only  a  sense  of  the  highest  art,  but  the 
highest  sense  of  art  which  the  human  intellect 
can  ever  hope  to  comprehend." 

The  couple  sat  silent  for  a  while,  looking  at 
the  broad  sheet  of  silver  moonlight  spread  before 
them — looking  at  the  million  star-specks  above — 
looking  at  the  lights  on  the  shore,  and  rapt  in  the 
great  artistic  wonder  of  light  itself. 

"  The  pleasure  we  derive  from  the  love  of  art, 
therefore,  my  boy,"  resumed  Uncle  Ben,  after  a 
time,  "is  the  highest  intellectual  enjoyment  of 
which  the  mind  of  man  is  susceptible.  It  at  once 
humiliates  and  elevates  the  soul:  humiliates  it 
with  a  true  sense  of  its  own  inferior  powers  and 
shortcomings,  and  elevates  it  also  with  a  sense  of 
the  perfection  and  excellence  of  the  artist  who 
has  overwhelmed  it  with  admiration.  It  fills  the 
mind  with  all  the  glory  of  the  highest  conquest — 
the  noblest  triumph ;  not  the  conquest  of  man 
over  man,  but  of  man  over  nature — the  triumph 
of  heroic  genius  over  difficulties.  Nor  is  there 
in  the  true  love  of  art  any  envy  of  rivals  or 
dread  of  victors,  for  those  who  are  made  the 
slaves  of  the  conquerors  are  the  most  willing  of 
all  slaves — the  most  reverent  of  all  children — the 
most  loving  of  all  friends.  The  wonder  that  it 
begets  in  the  soul  is  not  the  wonder  of  mere  ig 
norance,  child,  but  wonder  informed  by  all  the  en 
lightenment  and  beauty  contained  in  the  won 
drous  work  itself,  and  made  fervent,  almost  to 
worship,  by  the  sense  of  perfection  and  power  in 
that  which  overpowers  it.  There  is  no  power 
on  the  earth  so  mighty,  and  yet  so  spiritual  — 
so  kindly  and  so  noble  as  the  creative  power  of 
genius.  The  world's  riches  and  nobility  are  weak 


330  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

as  bubbles  beside  it;  heroism  and  martyrdom 
are  alone  kin  to  it  in  force  of  soul.  What  if  the 
rich  man  is  able  to  appropriate  a  manor  or  a  park? 
— can  he  appropriate  the  sunlight  and  the  shade 
— the  color,  the  form,  and  expression  of  nature  ? 
He  may  take  a  goodly  slice  of  the  earth  to  him 
self,  certainly,  but  he  can  not  possibly  buy  up  the 
beauty  of  the  landscape ;  he  can  not,  with  all  his 
riches,  arrange  so  that  he  alone  shall  enjoy  that, 
for  that  is  God's  dowry  to  all  who  have  an  eye 
and  a  soul  for  art,  and  it  is  only  the  artistic  sense 
that  can  thoroughly  appreciate  it.  What  if  the 
noble  can  have  a  legion  of  toad-eaters  to  fawn 
and  flatter,  fetch  and  carry  for  him !  can  not  the 
great  artist,  in  every  art,  have  all  the  intellectual 
spirits  in  the  world  for  his  admiring  vassals,  and 
make  them  at  once  his  very  slaves  and  worship 
ers  ?  And  does  the  glory  of  a  nation,  think  you, 
lie  in  its  Buckinghams  and  St.  Albans — the  pet 
creatures  of  a  foolish  monarch's  favor,  or  in  its 
Shakspeares,  Newtons,  Bacons,  Miltons,  Lelys, 
Purcells,  and  those  grand  patrician  souls  that  got 
their  patents  of  nobility  from  the  Great  Creator 
himself?  N~o,  lad ;  there  is  no  equivalent  power 
in  the  world  to  the  power  of  genius,  unless  it  be 
the  moral  power  of  the  hero  and  the  holy  power 
of  the  martyr ;  for  these  three,  indeed,  are  but 
kindred  forms  of  one  insuperable  and  transcend 
ent  force — force  of  mind — force  of  spirit — and 
force  of  soul.  There  is  the  same  self-sacrificing 
spirit  in  art  as  in  heroism ;  the  same  sacrifice  of 
worldly  riches  and  worldly  enjoyment  to  the  one 
absorbing  love — the  love  of  the  beautiful  and  the 
grand ;  the  same  bravery  of  nature  shown  in  the 
artist's  sturdy  fight  for  success ;  the  same  prow 
ess  in  carving  his  way  through  the  host  arrayed 
against  him,  and  the  same  chivalry  displayed  in 
his  ardor  to  do  battle  for  honor  and  beauty.  Nor 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  331 

is  true  genius  deficient,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the 
fine  martyr  power  to  suffer  for  what  it  devoutly 
believes  and  reveres ;  to  suffer  itself  to  be  gibbet 
ed  by  the  rest  of  the  world  as  a  madman  or  a 
prodigal ;  to  suffer  itself  to  be  crucified  with  the 
scorn  of  purse-pride  and  the  tyranny  of  worldly 
authority ;  and  yet,  amid  all,  to  lift  its  eyes  to 
heaven,  and  see  only  the  bright  spirit  of  perfec 
tion  that  it  delights  to  suffer  for." 

THE   PUEPOET    OF   INTELLECTUAL   PLEASURE. 

The  theme  was  no  sooner  ended  than  young 
Ben  threw  his  arms  about  his  godfather's  neck, 
and  hugged  him  enthusiastically  as  he  cried,  "  Oh, 
thank  you,  uncle !  thank  you  for  the  fine  feelings 
you  have  given  me ;"  but,  though  the  poor  little 
fellow  tried  to  speak  on,  his  heart  was  too  full  for 
utterance,  and  hysteric  sobs  burst  out  instead  of 
words,  while  Uncle  Ben  felt  a  tear-drop  fall  warm 
upon  his  hand.  Then,  as  the  lad  hid  his  face  upon 
his  uncle's  shoulder,  the  old  man  soothed  him 
with  fondling  while  he  said,  "There,  don't  bo 
shamefaced,  Ben ;  give  it  vent,  lad,  give  it  vent, 
and  it  will  soon  pass  away." 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  got  a  ball  in  my  throat," 
cried  the  little  man,  in  a  minute  or  two,  starting 
up  and  pressing  his  fingers  on  his  windpipe. 
Presently  he  began  walking  rapidly  up  and  down 
in  front  of  the  rock  on  which  they  had  been  seat 
ed,  and,  after  a  few  turns,  stopped  suddenly  in 
front  of  his  godfather,  as  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
thump  of  the  air  to  enforce  the  speech,  "  I  shall 
be  an  artist,  uncle — I  shall." 

"  Lad !  lad !  lad !  how  you  talk  !"  returned  the 
other.  "  Have  I  been  speaking  only  to  create  a 
phrensy  in  you,  when  all  I  wanted  was  to  beget  a 
love.  Say  you'll  be  a  king,  boy :  it's  easier  far, 
since  no  special  genius  is  required  for  that.  Say 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FKANKLIN. 

you'll  be  a  giant,  even  though  you  are  born  a 
pigmy;  you  might  as  well.  Ah!  Ben,  like  a 
hundred  others  in  the  world,  you  mistake  a  taste 
for  a  faculty,  a  mere  developed  liking  for  an  in 
herent  power — the  power  to  conceive  finely  and 
execute  gracefully ;  and  this  is  a  widely  different 
thing  from  the  function  of  merely  perceiving  and 
enjoying.  All  the  world,  if  duly  educated,  may 
have  the  enjoyment  awakened  and  developed  in 
them,  but  the  power  can  never  be  given  to  them, 
any  more  than  one  could  give  them  the  power  of 
soaring  like  eagles  when  they  lack  the  special 
organization  of  the  eagle  spirit  and  the  eagle 
wings." 

The  boy  hardly  relished  his  uncle's  demolition 
of  his  conceit,  so  he  merely  murmured  by  way  of 
reply, "  Now  I  suppose  we  have  done  for  to-night, 
eh  ?  Besides,  I  want  to  get  home,  and  think  of 
all  you've  said." 

"  Well,  my  good  lad,  I  won't  keep  you  long 
now,"  returned  the  godfather ;  "  but  we  mustn't 
go  without  giving  a  thought  respecting  what  we 
came  for,  Ben.  You  forget ;  what  you  wanted 
was  to  be  set  on  the  right  road,  little  man,  but  as 
yet  we  have  only  surveyed  the  quiet  shady  lane 
which  you  called  the  path  of  intellectual  pleasure, 
so  we  have  still  to  decide  whether  that  will  be 
the  cleanest,  or  the  most  agreeable,  or  even  the 
shortest  way  to  worldly  happiness." 

"  No  more  we  have !"  ejaculated  young  Ben,  as 
the  omission  flashed  upon  him ;  and  then  he  sud 
denly  added,  "But  my  mind's  quite  made  up, 
though !  I  mean  to  go  that  way  through  life,  I 
can  tell  you,  unky." 

"  Gently — gently !  gently  over  the  stones,  boy, 
as  the  coachmen  say,"  cried  the  uncle,  in  a  tone 
of  warning. 

This  made  his  little  godson  turn  sharply  round 


THE    NEXT   TURNING.  333 

and  inquire,  "  What  d'ye  mean  by  that,  Uncle 
Ben  ?" 

"  Why,  I  mean,  lad,"  he  went  on,  "  that  you'd 
find,  before  you  got  half  through  your  journey, 
that  it  was  sore  hard  traveling.  It's  but  a  by 
way  at  best,  Ben,  and  if  you  want  to  make  it  the 
high  road,  you'll  find,  sooner  or  later,  you'll  stick 
deep  in  the  mire,  like  many  others  who  have  made 
the  same  mistake." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  uncle — after  all  the 
grand  things  you've  been  saying  about  it,  too," 
interposed  "the  little  fellow,  growing  half  peevish 
at  the  crossing  of  his  purpose. 

"  Why,  look  here !  what  did  I  tell  you  were 
the  three  main  objects  of  human  life  ?"  the  old 
man  asked. 

"  Let  me  see  !  what  did  you  say  they  were  ?" 
young  Ben  inquired  of  himself;  "  though  I'm  sure 
you've  told  me  so  many  things  I  can't  exactly  re 
member  them  just  now." 

"  Business" — began  the  other. 

But,  before  he  had  time  to  finish  the  sentence, 
the  boy  had  added  "  amusements  and  duties." 

"  Well,  then,  lad,"  the  uncle  proceeded,  "  as 
sensual  pleasures  (or  rather  the  relief  of  the  wants 
and  uneasinesses  begotten  by  the  senses)  make  up 
the  main  business  of  life,  so  the  intellectual  pleas 
ures  should  form  the  basis  of  man's  mature  amuse 
ment  ;  and,  kept  within  their  due  sphere,  they  are 
the  lovely,  grand,  and  pure  enjoyments  of  our 
soul.  If,  however,  we  will  make  a  stern  business 
of  what  should  be  merely  a  fine  amusement — if 
we  will  be  at  play,  lad,  when  we  should  be  at  hard 
work,  no  matter  how  graceful  and  refining  the 
play  may  naturally  be — if  we  will  try  to  live  on 
flowers  (and,  remember,  the  flowers  are  the  most 
useless,  though  the  most  beautiful  of  all  natural 
objects,  Ben),  and  won't  seek  bread,  why,  of 


334  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

course  we  can't  expect  worldly  welfare.  Depend 
upon  it,  my  boy,  we  have  only  to  burst  through 
the  regular  round  of  nature  at  any  time  for  a 
whole  legion  of  ugly  imps  and  evil  spirits  to  rush 
in  upon  us  directly  the  magic  circle  is  broken." 

"  Oh  then,  I  suppose,  you  mean  to  say,  uncle," 
interposed  Master  Ben,  "  that  was  the  reason  why 
the  poet  had  taken  the  wrong  road  ?" 

"Of  course  it  was,"  said  the  old  man.  "He 
was  one  of  the  many  poor  fellows  who  try  to  live 
on  flowers,  and  who  starve  rather  than  live  at  the 
business  ;  for,  let  a  man  be  as  busy  as  a  bee,  Ben 
— ay,  and  as  thrifty  as  a  bee  too — he  can  not  hive 
much  of  what  the  poet  called  the  world's  honey 
out  of  the  buttercups  and  daisies  strewn  in  our 
path.  If  the  exigencies  of  human  nature  render 
ed  poetry  as  crying  a  necessity  as  food  and  rai 
ment  ;  if  the  love  of  the  beautiful  and  the  good 
had  been  made  an  appetite,  and  had  bred  in  us  all 
the  pangs  of  an  appetite  when  not  satisfied  (in 
stead  of  being  merely  one  of  the  many  bountiful 
after-enjoyments  that  we  have  been  fitted  to  feel, 
on  the  assuagement  of  the  appetites  themselves) 
why,  then,  to  have  made  poetry  a  business  would 
have  been  high  and  noble  worldly  wisdom.  But 
since  the  butcher  will  not  take  a  lovely  sonnet  in 
exchange  for  a  lovely  leg  of  mutton,  nor  a  tailor 
accept  the  finest  possible  ode  for  a  superfine  suit 
of  clothes,  why,  the  larder  must  be  empty,  Ben, 
and  the  back  be  poorly  clad,  if  we  will  continue 
toying  with  the  beautiful,  and  at  the  same  time 
warring  with  the  wise." 

"  But,  uncle,"  put  in  the  little  fellow,  "  Shak- 
speare  was  a  poet ;  and  yet,  I  think,  I  read  up  in 
your  room  that  at  the  end  of  his  life  he  wasn't  at 
all  badly  off,  either." 

"He  was  simply  the  finest  and  wisest  poet, 
perhaps,  the  world  ever  saw,  my  good  lad,"  the 


THE   NEXT   TUKNING.  335 

answer  ran,  "  and  just  one  of  the  few  profound 
geniuses  that  can  ever  make  a  fortune  out  of  an 
art.  You  see,  Ben,  the  great  drawback  of  the 
artistic  passion  is,  that  it  leads  so  many  to  do 
what  you  were  about  to  do  just  now — mistake  the 
mere  love  of  art  begotten  in  them  by  the  grand 
works  of  others,  for  an  inherent  power  existing 
in  themselves.  The  intense  admiration  that  is 
excited  by  all  works  of  high  art  begets  an  enthu 
siastic  love  for  the  art-creators,  and  this  passion 
again  begets,  in  its  turn,  a  fervent  desire  in  the 
breasts  of  those  who  feel  it  that  others  should 
have  the  same  enthusiastic  love  for  them.  So,  as 
each  art-worshiper  longs  in  his  soul  to  be  trans 
lated  from  the  humility  of  the  devotee  into  all  the 
glory  of  the  idol,  or,  in  plain  English,  to  be  re 
garded  as  a  genius  by  the  world,  why,  it  is  not  a 
very  difficult  matter  for  him  to  cheat  himself,  at 
last,  into  the  belief  that  he  is  what  he  wishes  to 
be.  Hence  hundreds  of  mere  clever  folk  are  led 
to  make  a  business  of  that  which  should  be  mere 
ly  an  elegant  amusement  to  them ;  but,  alas !  (as 
in  all  arts  it  is  only  genius,  or  inordinate  natural 
power  that  we  admire  and  value)  mere  cleverness, 
which  is  simply  ordinary  educated  power,  be 
comes  utterly  valueless  to  all  who  have  any  sense 
of  high  art  itself.  Consequently,  your  mere  clever 
folk  lind  it  very  difficult  to  get  a  market  for  their 
wares,  and  thus  those  who  should  have  remained 
amateurs — that  is  to  say,  simple  art-lovers — rather 
than  aspired  to  be  artists  or  art-creators  (and  who 
would  have  thriven  as  carpenters,  builders,  or 
smiths,  or  as  house-painters,  sign-painters,  or,  in 
deed,  at  any  calling  where  more  skilled  or  edu 
cated  handicraft  has  a  value  in  the  world),  have 
to  pay  a  long  and  heavy  penalty  for  their  folly  in 
the  shape  of  want,  disappointment,  and  envy." 
"  Oh,  I  understand  you  now,  and  see  what  a 


336  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

narrow  escape  I  have  had,  uncle,"  murmured  the 
youth.  "  And  that  was  why  the  artist  we  went 
to  was  almost  as  poor  as  the  poet,  eh  ?" 

The  answer  was,  "  Ay,  Ben,  he  was  truly  an 
art-lover,  and  should  never  have  been  an  art-cre 
ator.  The  poor  fellow  could  reproduce  fairly 
enough,  lad,  but  reproduction  in  art  is,  unfortu 
nately  for  such  as  he,  the  counterfeit  coin  that 
every  true  judge  of  the  sterling  metal  rejects  with 
disdain  as  a  sham  and  a  cheat." 

"  Well,  but  science,  you  said,  uncle,  was  wis 
dom,"  urged  young  Ben ;  "  so  I  suppose  the  gen 
tleman  who  passed  all  his  time  in  collecting  in 
sects,  and  in  looking  at  them — under  the  telescope, 
I  think  it  was — " 

"  Nay,  nay,  the  microscope,  lad,"  prompted  the 
uncle. 

"Well,  the  microscope,  then,"  continued  the 
boy,  "  and  who  spent  ever  such  a  lot  of  money 
upon  the  little  tiddy  lenses  to  it,  I  suppose  Tie  was 
wise,  wasn't  he  ?  Besides,  you  know,  he  was  a 
rich  gentleman,  and  could  afford  to  indulge  in 
such  an  amusement." 

"  So  could  the  epicure,  lad ;  and  the  one  only 
differed  from  the  other  in  the  fact  that  the  pur 
suit  was  less  animal  and  less  gross,"  was  the  re 
joinder.  "  With  the  epicure,  eating  was  a  lust ; 
with  the  entomologist,  the  study  of  animalcular 
life  was  a  hobby." 

The  boy  inquired,  "  And  what's  a  hobby,  un 
cle?" 

Uncle  Benjamin  gave  the  following  answer : 

"  A  hobby,  my  son,  is  any  dry  stick  that  big 
babies  like  to  get  astride,  and  go  prancing  and 
curveting  through  the  great  highway  as  proudly 
as  if  they  had  a  genuine  bit  of  blood  to  carry  them 
along.  The  fools  in  the  old  May-games  were  al 
ways  shown  riding  some  childish  wooden  hobby- 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  337 

horse,  and  the  fools  of  modern  time — who  see  life 
only  as  a  May-game — must  have  their  hobby  to 
ride  too.  Originally  the  hobby-horse  was  a  hack- 
horse,  that  used  to  carry  the  same  everlasting  pack 
upon  his  back,  and  to  be  perpetually  traveling  the 
same  everlasting  road.  Then  the  fool  got  astride 
wooden  hobbies,  and  rode  them  with  all  the  airs 
of  a  knight-errant,  eager  to  win  his  spurs  in  the 
world ;  and  after  that  babies  took  up  the  amusing 
foolery,  and  went  a-cock-horse  on  their  granny's 
crutch,  anticking  along  as  though  the  wretched 
hobbling  thing  fulfilled  all  the  functions  of  life. 
Hence,  my  boy,  a  hobby  came  at  last  to  stand  for 
any  kind  of  senseless  dead  horse  that  will  bear  any 
amount  of  overriding ;  indeed,  it  is  a  sort  of  dilet 
tante  clothes-horse — a  thing  for  philosophic  fops 
to  hang  their  mental  frippery  upon.  Hence,  too, 
hobby-riding  is  mere  childish  gamboling  rather 
than  the  true  manly  exercise  of  the  intellect — the 
monkey-trick  of  wisdom  trying  to  crack  the  hard 
nuts  of  the  world ;  as  if  the  ape  himself  had  learn 
ed  to  play  the  philosopher,  and  delighted  to  put 
on  the  sage's  spectacles,  and  try  and  look  wise  by 
staring  hard  at  the  puddles  and  the  stars  through 
the  thinker's  glasses." 

The  lad  was  tickled  with  the  figure,  but  too  in 
tent  on  solving  all  the  difficulties  of  the  problem 
his  uncle  had  set  before  him  to  do  more  than 
smile  at  the  image  it  conjured  up ;  so  he  said, 

"  Still,  unky,  dear,  I  can't  understand  why,  if 
there's  no  necessity  for  a  man  to  follow  any  busi 
ness,  he  mayn't  continually  pursue  some  intellect 
ual  amusement  without  being  looked  upon  only 
as  what  you  call  a  big  baby  or  a  world's  fool." 

"  There's  only  one  excuse,  Ben,"  the  tutor  made 
answer,  "  for  a  man  laboring  day  after  day  at  the 
same  occupation,  to  the  exclusion  of  almost  every 
other  obiect  in  life,  and  that  is,  because  it  is  a  busi- 

y 


338  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

ness  with  him ;  that  is  to  say,  because  the  exi 
gences  of  human  nature  at  once  demand  and  en 
force  it.  But  the  man  upon  whom  nature  has  re 
laxed  her  grip;  who  has  drawn  a  prize  in  the 
strange  social  lottery ;  who,  in  the  great  conscrip 
tion  forever  going  on  to  recruit  the  standing 
army  of  life,  has  escaped  entering  the  ranks  by 
being  allowed  to  find  a  substitute  to  do  the  hard 
work  of  the  battle  for  him — for  such  a  man  to 
make  an  amusement  a  business — for  such  a  man  to 
toil  and  labor  day  after  day  at  unnecessary  work, 
as  if  he  were  toiling  and  laboring  for  dear  life  it 
self,  and  that  also  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other 
object  in  the  world — this  is  to  reverse  the  wise 
ordinations  of  nature,  and  give  play  to  all  the  aus 
terity  of  hard  work,  as  well  as  to  transform  what 
was  intended  to  be  a  sweet  and  graceful  relief 
into  an  ugly  sore  and  a  source  of  endless  irrita 
tion." 

"  But  if  he  likes  to  make  play  hard  work,  un 
cle,"  again  urged  the  pertinacious  little  fellow, 
"why  shouldn't  he  do  so?" 

"  Because,  Ben,  life  should  never  be  entirely 
sacrificed  to  play,  or,  indeed,  to  any  one  pursuit 
except  that  of  work,"  the  tutor  responded.  "  And 
there  is  no  earthly  reason  why  we  should  persist 
in  working  at  this  one  pursuit  day  after  day,  but 
that  we  want  food  day  after  day,  ay,  and  shall 
want  it  daily  when  we  are  too  old  and  feeble  to 
continue  daily  work.  Besides,  my  boy,  if  Provi 
dence,  by  some  special  and  inscrutable  act  of  grace 
toward  us,  has  exempted  us  from  the  hard  labor 
of  life,  and  struck  the  iron  collar  of  want's  bitter 
serfdom  off  our  necks,  He  has  not  exempted  us,  at 
the  same  time,  from  the  duties  of  life,  but  rather 
ordained  that  from  those  to  whom  much  is  given 
much  is  expected.  Consequently,  he  who  rides  a 
hobby  rides  roughshod  over  all  the  soft  ties  of 


THE   NEXT  TURNING.  339 

nature,  tramples  under  foot  —  like  the  reckless 
hunter  dashing  through  a  corn-field  in  the  wild 
chase  that  he  calls  sport — all  that  was  meant  to 
comfort  and  sustain  the  suffering,  and  wastes,  in 
the  phrensy  of  his  amusement,  the  golden  means 
of  relief  to  those  who  want.  To  ride  a  hobby, 
lad  (even  though  it  carry  us  like  Pegasus  up  to 
the  very  grandeur  of  the  starry  universe  itself), 
is,  after  all — if  we  are  forever  in  the  clouds — 
merely  to  sweep  the  cobwebs  from  the  skies,  and 
to  soar,  like  an  old  witch  upon  a  broomstick,  far 
away  from  all  that  is  required  of  us  on  earth  it 
self." 

"  But,  Uncle  Ben,"  inquired  his  pupil,  "  if  such 
pursuits  are  not  hobbies — if  they  are  really  the 
business  by  which  people  live,  then  there  is  noth 
ing  wrong  in  them,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  So  far  from  there  being  any  thing  wrong  in 
them  when  not  made  the  one  overweening  and 
all-absorbing  amusement  of  a  life,  lad,"  he  answer 
ed,  "  they  are  studies  that  make  every  one  who 
has  the  faculty  to  comprehend  the  wonders  re 
vealed  by  them  feel  an  everlasting  poem  in  his 
brain,  far  beyond  the  power  of  even  Milton  him 
self  to  shape  into  words ;  and  those  with  whom 
they  are  a  business  rather  than  a  passion,  depend 
upon  it,  find  such  studies — even  grand  as  they 
are  when  occasionally  contemplated  in  the  lull  of 
the  work-day  world — often  harden  into  toil  that 
makes  the  brain  ache  again  after  long  laboring  at 
them ;  and  as  the  mill-horse,  who  was  kept  grind 
ing  forever  in  one  eternal  circle  throughout  the 
week,  found  ease  and  delight  only  in  unwinding 
himself,  as  it  were,  on  the  Sabbath  by  turning  in 
precisely  the  contrary  direction,  so  the  study  of 
the  revolutions  of  the  heavenly  bodies  lends,  in  its 
turn,  an  inordinate  delight  and  grace  to  the  round 
of  intellectual  pleasure  on  the  earth. 


840  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FBANKLIN. 

"  And  now,  lad,  we  have  but  to  note  how  these 
same  intellectual  pleasures  are  distinguished  from 
the  pleasures  of  the  senses  to  have  exhausted  this 
part  of  our  subject.  What  did  I  tell  you,  Ben, 
were  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  sensual  en 
joyments  ?"  and,  as  the  old  man  asked  the  ques 
tion,  he  rose  from  his  seat,  and,  taking  the  boy  by 
the  hand,  commenced  walking  homeward  along 
the  shore. 

"  Why,  uncle,  you^said,"  cried  the  little  fellow 
— "  for  I  remember  it  struck  me  strongly  at  the 
time — that  as  a  sensation  was  always  caused  by 
the  operation  of  something  outside  of  us — " 

"  Yes,  those  were  my  words,  Ben,"  interposed 
the  godfather.  "  Go  on." 

"  I  know  what  you  meant,  but  it's  so  hard  to 
say  it  as  you  did,  uncle,"  the  boy  added,  after  a 
pause ;  and  then,  with  a  little  stammering,  jerked 
out, "  Why,  you  said  we  must  go  hunt  for  the 
objects  of  sensual  pleasure  in  the  world  about  us ; 
yes,  and  you  said  we  must  often  have  to  pay  dear 
ly  for  them  too." 

"That's  perfectly  right,  Ben;"  and  the  kindly 
old  teacher  shook  his  little  godson  by  the  hand  as 
he  said  the  words.  "  And,  on  the  contrary,  the 
intellectual  pleasures  are  comparatively  inexpens 
ive  ones,  lying  mostly  within  ourselves.  The  very 
perception  of  beauty  (which  is  perhaps  the  largest 
intellectual  sense  of  all,  being  connected  with  al 
most  every  source  of  mental  enjoyment)  is  a  fac 
ulty  that  admits  of  continual  gratification  with 
out  cost.  The  whole  world,  if  we  will  but  open 
our  eyes  to  it,  is  one  vast  temple  of  beauty,  filled 
with  works  of  the  choicest  art,  and  this  the  very 
beggar  or  pauper  is  as  free  as  the  prince  to  enjoy; 
for  it  is  a  luxury  that  is  priceless  in  a  double  sense, 
costing  nothing,  and  yet  being  beyond  all  cost. 
Look  here,  lad — "  and  he  stopped  and  turned  to- 


THE   NEXT   TUKNING.  341 

ward  the  moon  that  was  flooding  the  bay  with  all 
the  soft  splendor  of  the  silver  sunlight  of  its  beams. 
"  Look  here !  What  pomp  of  kings  was  ever 
equal  to  this  ?  What  palace  was  ever  so  gorgeous 
with  its  million  lights  as  this  vast  starry  hall? 
and  yet  it  is  lighted  up  even  for  the  vagrant  and 
the  outcast,  as  well  as  for  you  or  me.  Who  can 
appropriate  this  magnificent  scene,  boy  ?  Who 
can  buy  this  up  so  that  he  alone  may  enjoy  it? 
And  yet,  lovely  as  all  this  now  is,  what  a  mighty 
transformation  —  what  a  new  beauty  will  be 
brought  about  in  a  few  hours !  Think  how  the 
now  colorless  earth  will  then  leap  into  a  million 
hues  with  the  first  flash  of  the  daylight;  how 
these  dark  fields  will  suddenly  glitter  in  the  sun 
with  all  the  golden-green  lustre  of  the  peacock's 
plumage ;  how  the  stars  above  will  fade  one  by 
one  from  the  skies,  and  the  bright-colored  little 
stars  of  the  earth  begin  to  peep  out  from  the 
hedgerows  and  the  meadows !  How  this  broad 
ocean,  which  is  more  like  one  immense  floor  of 
silver,  will  then  be  red  as  wine  with  the  ruby 
light ;  and  think,  too,  boy,  that  this  is  a  feast 
spread  for  us  all,  day  after  day,  and  a  feast  which 
never  cloys — never  surfeits." 

The  boy  kissed  his  uncle's  hand  in  gratitude 
for  the  pleasant  knowledge  and  high  perceptions 
he  had  given  him.  He  was  like  a  young  bird 
whom  the  old  one  was  teaching  to  fly,  and  he 
found  no  little  difficulty  in  keeping  on  the  wing 
after  him,  so  he  rested  in  silent  admiration  till  the 
other  continued. 

"But  not  only  is  there  the  usual  beauty  of  na 
ture,  Ben,  ever  open  to  us,  but  there  is  the  beauty 
of  the  peculiar  trains  of  thoughts  and  feelings  be 
gotten  by  the  peculiar  nooks  and  corners  of  the 
earth :  the  beauty  of  the,  solemn  mood  inspired 
by  the  woods — the  calm,  contemplative  spirit  en- 


842  YOUNG  BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

gendered  by  the  quiet  lanes — the  gentle  cheerful 
ness  begotten  by  the  brook-side — the  sweet  seren 
ity  of  soul  impressed  by  the  sea-shore.  Again, 
in  the  very  associations  with  which  the  mind  is 
forever  strewing  our  path  through  life — like  flow 
ers  scattered  as  we  go — there  is  a  large  fund  of  de 
light  always  stored  within  ourselves.  Our  home 
is  home  only  from  the  cluster  of  sweet  associa 
tions  that  hang  about  the  old  house,  thick  and 
pleasant  as  a  cloud  of  jasmine  at  the  porch;  not 
a  tree  in  the  fields  where  we  sported  in  our  youth 
but  is  entwined  all  round  with  the  tendrils  of 
many  a  sweet-scented  memory ;  not  an  old  friend's 
face  that  is  not  lighted  up  in  our  eyes  with  the 
recollection  of  all  the  happiness  and  all  the  many 
little  kindnesses  rendered  to  us.  So,  too,  with 
the  imagination :  we  have  here  also  in  our  power 
a  mighty  principle  of  delight.  Even  with  the  very 
young,  their  plays — their  little  pretendings — their 
sham  feasts — their  mock  battles — their  love  of 
fairy  stories — all  owe  their  pleasure  to  the  charm 
of  the  fancy  within  us ;  while  even  to  the  more 
mature,  the  frost  on  the  window-pane,  which  the 
mind  loves  to  shape  into  so  many  grotesque  pic 
tures,  and  the  glowing  sea-coal  fire  that  we  love 
to  sit  and  look  at,  and  trace  faces,  and  mountains, 
and  what  not,  amid  the  red-hot  coals,  can  give  the 
fancy  many  an  hour's  pleasant  play:  even  as  to 
the  poor  prisoner,  barred  and  bolted  in  his  living 
tomb,  the  imagination  is  the  great  liberator ;  for 
this  at  any  time  can  set  him  free  in  mind,  and 
carry  him,  in  fancy,  home  to  his  friends  again. 
Indeed,  lad,  the  world  within — if  we  will  but  wan 
der  in  it — is  as  richly  stocked  with  beauty  and 
treasures  as  the  world  without,  and  with  beauty 
and  treasures  that  are  all  our  own  too.  It  is  in 
our  brain  the  fairies  dwell,  and  the  flowers  they 
nestle  in  bloom  there  too;  there  the  gorgeous 


THE   NEXT   TUKNING.  343 

land  of  romance  and  enchantment  is  to  be  found ; 
there,  atfd  there  only,  can  we  find  Utopia,  the  isl 
and  of  perfect  happiness  ;  there  the  wood  nymphs 
and  the  water  nymphs  are  ever  lurking  in  the 
mythic  streams  and  groves,  and  waiting  but  for 
one  wave  of  the  fancy's  wand  to  summon  all  to 
life ;  there  lies  the  realm  of  all  ideal  excellence 
and  beauty,  and  there  is  no  perfection  to  be  found 
on  the  earth  but  there." 

Again  the  teacher  paused,  while  he  mentally 
scanned  the  details  of  his  subject.    The  boy  hadn't 
a  syllable  to  say.    His  little  stock  of  words,  he 
knew,  was  too  scanty  to  trust  himself  to  speak  on 
such  a  matter;  but  his  young  heart  was  full  to 
overflowing  with  that  fine  reverent  fervor,  that 
iris-like  emotion  (made  up  of  all  the  brightest  and 
warmest  hues  of  the  soul— love,  wonder^  grati 
tude,  and  veneration)  with  which  the  mind  al 
ways  turns  to  any  one  that  has  awakened  grand 
thoughts  and  perceptions  in  it,  and  which  Uncle 
Benjamin  had  called,  in  contradistinction  to  the 
moral  sense  and  the  common  sense,  the  art-sense — 
the  admiring,  worshipful  sense  of  human  nature. 
Presently  the  uncle  resumed  as  they  walked  on 
by  the  shore :  "  But  even,  lad,"  said  he, "  when 
we  have  to  hunt  for  the  objects  of  intellectual 
pleasure  outside  of  ourselves,  and  to  buy  them 
of  others  in  the  world  about  us,  they  are  to  be 
had  for  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  costly 
luxuries  of  the  senses.     A  dainty  dinner  would 
have  cost  me  more  than  I  gave  for  my  copy  of 
Plutarch's  Lives— the  book  you're  so  fond  of,  Ben, 
you  know ;  yet  see  what  a  number  of  grand  feasts 
you  and  I  have  had  out  of  it,  and  still  it  has  left 
not  a  twinge  of  gout  in  the  brain  behind  it  either. 
For  what  I  gave  for  my  Shakspeare  I  couldn't 
have  got  a  diamond  bigger  than  a  speck  of  hoar 
frost,  lad,  and  yet,  if  I  could  have  had  one  as  big 


344 


YOUNG  BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 


as  the  knob  of  a  beadle's  staff  to  stick  in  ray 
shirt-frill,  or  as  brilliant  as  a  fire-fly  to  flash  about 
upon  my  finger,  do  you  think  the  pretty  petrified 
dew-drop  would  have  done  other  than  have  made 
a  big  baby  of  me  ?  But,  on  the  other  hand,  see 
what  a  man  I've  become  by  preferring  to  bedizen 
and  bejewel  my  mind  with  the  bright  thoughts 
and  fancies  of  those  volumes.  For  what  gem  in 
the  world  is  there  that  can  compare  with  that 
lovely  crystal  book  ?  Was  ever  a  bit  of  earth  so 
exquisitely  transparent  as  even  human  nature  it 
self  is  there  made  to  appear  ?  Was  there  ever 
such  play  of  color  as  there  you  see  twinkling  in 
all  the  hundred  hues  of  human  character  ?  Was 
there  ever  such  fire  as  there,  where  every  page  is 
aflame  with  human  passion,  and  every  line  scin 
tillates  with  human  genius?  Was  there  ever 
such  dazzle,  such  sparkle  in  a  mere  stone,  however 
precious  ?  Why,  twist  and  turn  the  bright  ada 
mant  bit  of  art  as  you  will,  in  every  different  light 
you  look  _  at  it  you  shall  see  fresh  flashes,  fresh 
delicate  tints  and  touches,  fresh  glitter  and  rich 
ness,  and  fresh  beauty  too.  A  good  book,  lad,  is 
at  all  times  a  wonderful  thing.  It  is  said  that 
savages,  when  they  first  discover  that  a  person 
has  the  power  of  communicating  his  thoughts  to 
another  at  a  distance  by  means  of  a  few  marks 
made  upon  a  blank  surface,  fall  down  and  wor 
ship  the  writer  as  a  divine  being.  My  boy,  a 
book  is  naturally  but  a  few  pages  of  paper  scratch 
ed  over  with  a  few  fine  black  lines,  and  yet  those 
magic  lines  are  the  means  of  enabling  us  to  hold 
communion  with  the  very  dead  themselves — to 
think  as  they  thought,  feel  as  they  felt,  hundreds 
of  years  ago.  To  read  Shakspeare,  my  dear  Ben, 
is  to  think  Shakspeare,  to  be  Shakspeare  for  the 
time;  it  is  to  have  the  same  bright  fancies  flit 
through  our  brain,  the  same  passions  stirring  our 


THE   NEXT   TURNING.  346 

soul,  as  he  had  while  penning  the  book  itself.  To 
lift  the  cover  of  such  a  work  is,  as  it  were,  to  roll 
the  stone  from  before  the  sepulchre,  and  have  the 
immortal  spirit  rise  from  the  tomb,  quick  again 
with  the  very  breath  of  life  and  genius.  But, 
though  this  is  the  natural  marvel  of  a  great  book, 
its  natural  and  spiritual  beauty  lies  not  more  in 
the  fine  mental  enjoyment  it  gives  us  than  in  the 
fine  moral  comfort  it  affords  the  soul.  There  are 
times,  lad,  when  we  are  worldly-tired,  when  the 
spirit  is  footsore,  as  it  were,  writh  the  fatigues  of 
worldly  care  and  worldly  struggle,  and  it  is  finely 
ordained  that  it  should  be  so.  But  then,  ay  then, 
what  balm  is  the  mental  rest  and  the  mental  ease 
of  a  fine  book  to  us !  It  comes  as  refreshing  as 
dew  in  drought ;  as  sweet  and  grateful  as  manna 
in  the  wilderness.  It  is  like  the  very  rest  of  heav 
en  itself  to  get  far  away  from  the  world  at  such 
times,  and  then  the  wizardry  of  a  really  grand  and 
thoughtful  work  is  felt  to  be  the  very  power  of 
enchantment.  When  we  are  sick  of  the  world's 
fools,  lad,  and  the  world's  cheats,  and  the  world's 
heartlessness,  and  the  world's  trumpery,  what  in 
tense  delight  then  to  slip  away  to  our  study,  or 
to  some  pretty  bubbling  brook-side,  and  turn  to 
the  fond  companionship  of  a  good  book,  so  as  to 
get  a  smack  of  the  world's  wisdom,  the  world's 
greatness,  the  world's  truth,  and  goodness  too ! 
Could  we  have  known  the  great  spirits  that  have 
delighted  and  ejmobled  mankind  with  their  works, 
we  should  have  thought  it  a  high  privilege  to 
have  had  communion  with  them,  a  signal  grace  to 
have  gained  their  counsel.  Still  they  were  hu 
man  like  ourselves,  Ben,  and  had  more  or  less  of 
the  weakness  and  pettiness  of  humanity  amid  all 
their  strength  and  greatness ;  but  in  the  noblest 
books,  lad,  wre  see  only  the  noblest  part  of  human 
ity  ;  its  inordinate  power  rather  than  its  ordinary 


340  YOUNG   BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

frailty ;  its  unwonted  grandeur  rather  than  its 
every-day  meanness ;  and  thus,  by  means  of  the 
best  books,  we  get  to  know  the  best  natures  that 
ever  lived,  and  to  know  them  in  their  best  and 
happiest  moods  too." 

There  was  still  another  point  to  enforce  before 
the  lesson  was  completed ;  so,  after  a  brief  rest, 
Uncle  Ben  continued :  "  I  have  now  only  to  im 
press  you,  my  child,  with  a  sense  of  the  general 
unselfish  character  of  true  intellectual  enjoyment, 
and  then  my  worldly  sermon  is  finished :  I  want 
you  to  mark  well  the  distinction  between  the 
pleasures  of  the  senses  and  those  of  the  mind  in 
this  respect.  With  sensual  pleasure  there  is  al 
most  always  a  desire  to  appropriate  the  thing  that 
pleases  us — that  is  to  say,  to  take  it  and  keep  it 
to  ourselves,  so  that  we  alone  may  enjoy  it ;  and 
some  mean  natures  find  a  small  delight  even  in 
exciting  the  envy  of  others  by  the  display  of  the 
worldly  valuables  they  have  been  lucky  enough  to 
obtain,  so  that  the  love  of  pomp  and  show,  dress 
and  finery,  is  often  found  to  be  closely  connected 
with  the  poor  glory  of  worldly  riches.  But  with 
the  objects  of  intellectual  pleasure  there  is  seldom 
any  such  drawback.  As  I  said  before,  a  man  can 
not  appropriate  the  beauty  of  the  landscape  ;  in 
deed,  so  far  from  any  such  greed,  any  such  craving 
to  monopolize  what  pleases  us  coming  upon  the 
soul  in  a  state  of  intellectual  enjoyment,  the  very 
contrary  feeling  is  awakened,  anc^  the  same  pro 
pensity  for  ^oselytism  sets  in,  as  even  in  religious 
fervor  itself,  and  we  grow  eager  to  make  others 
see,  think,  and  feel  as  we  do.  Who  that  was 
ever  fired  with  the  beauty  of  a  noble  or  graceful 
thought,  a  grand  discovery,  or  a  lovely  scene,  has 
not  felt  a  positive  yearning  of  the  spirit  to  commu 
nicate  the  delight  awakened  in  him  to  some  con 
genial  bosom !  If  it  were  not  for  this  exquisitely 


THE  NEXT  TUKNING.  347 

generous  character  of  our  mental  nature.  Chris 
tianity  itself  would  never,  probably,  have  traveled 
beyond  the  walls  of  Jerusalem ;  for  if  there  were 
the  same  greed  to  monopolize  a  high  mental  en 
joyment  as  there  is  to  keep  a  sensual  one  all  to 
ourselves,  what  desire  could  ever  have  stirred  the 
early  Christians  to  seek  to  turn  the  hearts  of  those 
far  distant  from  all  the  horrors  of  paganism  to  the 
sweet  benevolence  of  the  « new  commandment  ?' 
Again,  Ben,  if  it  were  not  for  this  innate  love  of 
sharing  our  mental  delights  with  others,  ^there 
could  have  been  no  philosophy,  no  teaching  in  the 
world.  When  you  come,  boy,  to  look  into  those 
wonderful  elaborations  of  mental  mosaic-work 
which  make  up  the  several  natural  sciences,  you 
will  learn  how  they  have  been  built  up,  like  the 
huge  coral  reefs  in  the  ocean,  by  an  infinity  of  dis 
tinct  and  minute  workers,  all  laboring  away  far 
beneath  the  surface,  and  each  intent  on  adding  his 
little  mite  of  extra  work  to  the  mass,  so  as  to  give 
it  ultimately  the  fine  proportions  of  a  great  and 
mighty  whole.  You  will  then  see,  Ben,  how  little 
each  has  added,  even  after  the  labor  of  a  long  life, 
and  how  many  had  to  contribute  their  quota  of 
industry  before  the  whole  assumed  any  thing  like 
the  grandeur  and  solidity  of  a  rock !  And  yet, 
lad,  if  each  of  these  profound  and  minute  laborers 
hadn't  shared  with  the  rest  what  he  had  been  able 
to  accomplish — if  each  had  kept  to  himself  the  lit 
tle  bit  of  vantage-ground  he  had  gained  instead 
of  letting  it  go  to  swell  the  common  heap,  why, 
what  progress  could  any  have  made,  or  how  could 
any  have  raised  themselves  above  the  mire  ? 

"  And  now,  lad,"  concluded  the  man,  as  they  ap 
proached  the  harbor  of  the  town, "  we  have  reach 
ed  the  port  we  made  for,  and  after  our  long  voy 
age  of  discovery  you'll  feel  at  least  the  delight  of 
treading  with  a  firmer-footing,  and  learn  the  pleas 
ure  of  standing  upon  terra  firma  at  last." 


348  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

TEASING. 

THE  lesson  of  life  was  nearly  ended.  There 
was  only  one  more  chapter  to  be  got  by  heart ; 
but  it  was  a  difficult  one  to  study,  and  required 
close  and  peculiar  observation  of  the  world  to 
learn. 

Uncle  Ben  had  to  think  for  a  time  how  he 
should  dramatize  the  story  he  had  to  tell — how 
he  should  put  life  and  action  into  it,  and  give  it 
all  the  vividness  that  scenery  and  incident  inva 
riably  lend  to  a  subject. 

However,  at  last  he  saw  his  way ;  so,  early  the 
next  morning,  the  boy  and  his  godfather  were  out 
in  the  streets  of  Boston,  going  the  rounds  of  the 
city  once  more. 

"  Where  in  goodness  are  you  going  to  take  me 
to  now,  uncle  ?"  asked  little  Ben,  as  he  trotted 
along  at  the  old  man's  side,  all  agog  again  with 
the  excitement  of  curiosity. 

But  old  Benjamin  Franklin  was  too  cunning  a 
teacher  to  blunt  the  edge  of  what  he  wanted  to 
cut  deeply  into  the  memory  by  satisfying  the  lad's 
desire  at  once,  so  he  rather  strove  to  fan  the  flame 
than  damp  the  ardor  of  the  boy's  wonder  and 
consequent  inquisitiveness.  Accordingly,  he  ask 
ed  in  his  turn,  "Where  do  you  think,  Ben? 
You've  been  taken  out  fishing — you've  gone  out 
boating — you've  been  to  the  hunting  plains  in  the 
Far  West — you've  been  round  the  town  to  see  the 
great  human  menagerie,  and  the  strange  rational 
animals  collected  in  it — you've  been  on  the  rocks 


TEASING.  349 

by  moonlight,  and  all  to  have  a  peep  at  the  world, 
and  find  out  how  to  grope  your  way  through  it, 
and  now — " 

"  Yes,  uncle,  what  now  ?"  cried  the  lad,  on  the 
very  tenter-hooks  of  suspense ;  and  then  added 
petulantly,  as  the  old  man  stopped  short, "  There, 
you  won't  go  on.  How  you  do  like  to  tease  a  fel 
low,  to  be  sure !  I  call  it  very  unkind  of  you,  that 
I  do."  But  presently  he  said,  coaxingly,  "  Where 
are  we  going  to,  unky,  eh  ?  You  might  as  well 
tell  a  chap ;  besides,  what  difference  can  it  make, 
for  I  shall  know  it  all  in  a  short  time." 

"  Well,  then,  why  can't  you  wait  that  short  time, 
Ben  ?"  and  the  old  man  smiled  as  he  played  like 
a  cat  with  the  little  mouse  in  his  power,  now  let 
ting  him  run  on  a  few  paces,  and  now  pouncing 
down  upon  him  only  to  tighten  the  grip  and  in 
crease  the  poor  thing's  torture. 

"That's  the  way  you  kept  tantalizing  me  all 
the  way  to  the  prairies,"  muttered  the  boy,  as  he 
walked  doggedly  on  beside  the  other.  "I  declare, 
all  you  did  then  was  to  keep  knag-knagging  away 
at  me,  for  all  the  world  as  one  sees  mother  twitch 
and  jerk  away  at  the  knots  in  a  tangled  skein  of 
thread ;  asking  me  now, '  Where  I  thought  I  was 
going  to  ?'  and  then, '  What  I  expected  I  was  to 
be  shown  next  ?'  and  after  that,  '  Why  I  fancied 
you  took  me  all  the  trips  you  did?'  and  only  say 
ing,  when  I  begged  of  you  to  tell  me  all  about  it, 
c  There !  there !  patience,  my  little  philosopher, 
patience ;  you  will  know  all  in  good  time,'  just  as 
you  do  now." 

The  old  man  couldn't  help  laughing  outright  as 
the  boy  mimicked  his  voice  and  manner  while  re 
peating  the  reply,  for  he  himself  could  tell  how 
pat  the  little  fellow  had  taken  him  off.  Then  he 
said,  "  Well,  Ben,  I  had  an  object  for  withholding 
the  reason  at  that  time,  and  so  I  have  now.  It  is 


350  YOUNG   BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

merely  a  trick  I  have,  lad ;  just  a  trick,  that's  all. 
But  come,  Master  Ben,  where  do  you  think  we 
are  really  going  to  this  time?"  he  began,  again 
pricking  the  little  fellow's  curiosity  with  a  small 
packet  of  mental  pins  and  needles.  "  It's  such  a 
queer  place  to  take  a  boy  like  you  to,  you  can't 
tell." 

The  lad  was  on  thorns  again.  He  had  turned 
away  half  in  dudgeon  at  the  idea  of  his  uncle 
laughing,  as  he  thought,  at  his  eagerness ;  but  the 
smallest  glimmer  of  coming  information  was  suf 
ficient  to  bring  him  back  close  to  the  old  man's 
side.  "  A  queer  place,  is  it,  uncle,  eh  ?  Where 
abouts  is  it  ?  What  do  you  call  it  ?  What  shall 
we  see  there  ?"  he  inquired,  all  in  one  breath. 

But,  poor  fellow,  the  only  answer  he  got  was, 
"All  in  good  time,  my  lad,  all  in  good  time ;  we 
sha'n't  be  very  long  before  we  get  to  it." 

The  little  chap  could  readily  have  cried  with 
the  irritation  of  the  continued  teasing ;  but  he  bit 
his  lip,  so  that  his  godfather  shouldn't  have  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  how  vexed  he  was.  He 
knew  there  was  some  sight  in  store  for  him,  and 
he  was  almost  frantic  with  the  rage  of  the  appe 
tite  that  the  old  man  had  roused  in  him. 

Uncle  Benjamin,  however,  knew  well  how  far 
to  go.  He  knew  that  overstrained  curiosity,  like 
the  overtension  of  any  other  faculty,  will  often 
end  in  the  snapping  of  the  very  chord  that  had 
once  so  tight  a  hold  of  the  mind,  and  that  disgust 
or  indifference  are  apt  to  supervene  if  the  desire 
be  too  long  foiled  of  its  object.  So  he  began  to 
relax  a  bit,  and  allow  the  poor  struggling  fish  he 
had  hooked  a  little  play  of  line,  just  to  prevent  his 
breaking  the  mere  hair  which  held  him.  "  Come, 
Ben,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  sounded  as  if  he  was 
relenting,  "I  won't  tease  my  little  man  any  more," 
and  he  drew  the  lad  toward  him  as  he  spoke ;  "  so 


TEASING.  351 

where  do  you  think,  now,  I  am  really  going  to 
take  you  to  ?" 

Poor  Ben  ivanted  to  turn  away  again,  for  he 
expected  the  same  question  would  bring  only  the 
same  evasive  reply ;  but  the  old  man  held  him 
fast.  "There,  you're  beginning  your  teasing 
again,  uncle,  I  declare,"  cried  the  boy,  half  angry, 
even  though  he  couldn't  help  laughing  in  the 
midst  of  it. 

"  No,  I'm  not,  lad,  indeed  I'm  not,"  answered 
the  playful  old  boy,  who  couldn't  keep  from  laugh 
ing  too.  "  I'm  going  to  tell  you,  for  I  know  you'll 
never  guess.  It's  such  a  queer  place  you  can't 
think — the  queerest  place  in  the  world  to  take  a 
boy  like  you  to,  as  I  said  before." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  said  it  before,  and  what's  the 
use  of  repeating  it  over  and  over  again  ?"  he  ex 
claimed,  with  a  quick  toss  of  the  head,  that  ex 
pressed  whole  volumes  more  than  my  Lord  Bur- 
leigh's  celebrated  shake. 

"  How  can  you  say  so,  Ben,  when  I'm  going  to 
tell  you,  I  say  again,"  the  uncle  pretended  to  ex 
postulate. 

"  Then  why  dorft  you  do  it,  and  have  done 
with  it  ?"  shouted  the  boy,  savagely. 

The  godfather  saw  that  he  had  gone  the  full 
length  of  his  tether.  It  was  plain  the  lad  could 
bear  no  more  trifling  with ;  so  Uncle  Ben  said,  as 
he  stood  still  in  the  street,  and  looked  the  little 
fellow  in  the  face,  "  I'm  going  to  take  you,  Ben — " 

The  boy  couldn't  wait  for  the  information  that 
he  now  knew  was  on  the  tip  of  his  uncle's  tongue ; 
so,  as  the  old  man  paused  for  a  minute  to  give 
the  words  extra  force  at  the  end  of  the  sentence, 
he  cried  "  Where  ?" 

"  Why,  to  jail,  lad— to  jail !"  was  the  reply. 

"  Ah !  now  you  are  only  making  a  fool  of  me ;" 
and  the  indignant  boy  turned  upon  his  heel,  as 


352  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

his  uncle  fell  to  laughing  outright  at  the  little  fel 
low's  exhibition  of  incredulity. 

"Hoi!  what  are  you  up  to,  boy?  where  are 
you  going  to?"  Uncle  Ben  cried  through  his 
chuckles,  as  he  saw  the  youth  marching  back 
home  again ;  but,  finding  the  youth  paid  no  heed 
to  his  cries,  the  old  man  set  off  running  after  him, 
his  sides  still  shaking  with  the  fun  the  while,  so 
that  he  went  along  wabbh'ng  like  a  jelly  when  it's 
moved. 

"  Come  back,  you  rogue,"  he  gasped  out,  as  at 
last  he  got  close  up  with  the  boy,  and  seized  him 
by  the  collar ;  "  I  tell  you  I'm  going  to  take  you 
to  jail ;"  and  then,  as  he  stared  in  the  face  of  the 
astonished  lad,  he  burst  out  giggling  again  so 
heartily  that  Ben  himself — for  honest  good-humor 
is  always  infectious — was  obliged  to  take  the 
frown  out  of  his  little  brow  and  pucker  his  cheeks 
into  dimples  instead.  And  there  the  pair  stood 
for  a  while  laughing  at  each  other  in  the  middle 
of  the  street. 

"  You're  only  having  a  game  with  me,  ain't  you 
now,  uncle?"  inquired  the  pacified  youngster, 
when  the  whim  was  over,  and  they  turned  round 
to  resume  their  way. 

"  I  tell  you,  Master  Ben,  you  are  a  little  unbe 
lieving  Jew,  you  are.  It's  as  true  as  gospel,  lad ; 
and  you  know  I  wouldn't  say  that  in  jest,"  the 
old  man  replied.  "  I'm  going  to  take  you  to  the 
jail." 

"  The  jail !"  echoed  young  Ben,  in  his  wonder. 

"  Ay,  boy,  the  jail !"  repeated  the  other.  "  I'm 
going  to  show  you  the  end  of  the  road  to  ruin  in 
this  life.  I'm  going  to  let  you  see  what  wisdom 
there  is  in  the  poor-house  as  well  as  the  prison." 

"  No !  are  you  really,  uncle  ?  Well,  do  you 
know,  I've  long  wanted  to  see  what  such  places 
are  like,"  added  the  boy,  who  was  now  himself 


TEASING.  353 

again,  and  fully  satisfied  that  his  godfather's  fit 
of  fun-poking  was  over.  "  But  still,  as  I  don't 
mean  to  go  to  ruin,  Uncle  Ben,  I  can't  see  what 
good  there  can  be  in  your  pointing  out  to  me  the 
road  to  it." 

"  I  have  no  such  object  in  view,  my  boy,"  went 
on  the  old  man.  "  My  scheme  is  not  the  paltry 
nursery  trick  of  frightening  you  into  rectitude  by 
showing  you  the  death's  head  and  bare  bones  of 
worldly  vice  and  folly.  I  don't  want  to  make 
squalor  and  infamy  mere  moral  bugaboos ;  but, 
rather,  I  do  want  to  let  you  learn  what  kindly 
and  touching  things  they  can  whisper  in  your 
heart's  ear,  if  your  heart  will  but  turn  to  them. 
I  want  to  use  the  ugliness  of  life  as  a  means  of 
giving  you  a  sense  of  the  highest  beauty  in  the 
world,  lad." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  let  me  see 
these  places,  so  that  I  might  learn  where  I  should 
get  to  at  last,  if  I  was  foolish  enough  to  take  the 
wrong  road,"  said  the  youth,  still  harping  on  the 
old  figure. 

Uncle  Benjamin  shook  his  head  and  smiled  as 
lie  said, "  The  artifice  has  been  tried  a  thousand 
times,  and  failed  just  a  thousand  times  too.  Peo 
ple  see  thus  much  of  life  made  out  in  the  trashy 
melo-dramas  of  the  play-house  night  after  night, 
Ben,  and  yet  persons  of  my  way  of  thinking — 
even  though  I  do  read  and  delight  in  Shakspeare" 
— he  put  in  parenthetically  —  "believe  that  the 
morality  of  the  play-house  is  poor  powerless  stuff, 
after  all.  Even  in  the  silliest  works  of  fiction,  vir 
tue  is  always  rewarded  and  vice  punished,  and  yet 
the  silly  people  who  read  them  will  be  vicious, 
and  won't  be  virtuous,  despite  of  the  teaching. 
There  is  always  a  moral,  too — some  wretched, 
driveling,  copy-book  platitude — tacked  on  the  tail 
of  every  fable ;  and  yet,  lad,  what  boy  was  ever 


364  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

cured  of  saying  '  don't  care,'  because  that  wicked 
Harry,  in  the  spelling-book,  was  eaten  up  alive  by 
a  roaring  lion  for  it — even  though  the  punishment 
is  so  tremendous,  and  the  fault  so  trivial  ?" 

Young  Ben  smiled  as  he  remembered  the  ap 
palling  illustration  of  wretched  "  don't  care"  Har 
ry  in  the  act  of  being  devoured  by  the  hungry 
beast  in  the  primer  he  had  used  at  Mr.  Brown- 
well's  school. 

"The  best  moral  lesson  we  can  ever  hope  to 
give  a  person,  Ben,  is  a  truthful  insight  into  hu 
man  nature,"  the  uncle  went  on.  "  The  idle  scho 
lastic  method  of  connecting  a  prize  or  a  thrashing 
with  good  conduct,  or  the  reverse,  exhibits  the 
crudest  knowledge  of  the  motives  of  mankind,  for 
it  makes  the  object  to  be  gained  or  avoided  some 
thing  extrinsic  to  the  thing  itself;  and  thus,  while 
it  leaves  the  propensity  to  err  the  same  as  ever, 
it  leads  the  mind  to  indulge  in  all  kinds  of  cheat- 
ery  to  win  the  one  or  escape  from  the  other. 
There  is  but  one  certain  and  sound  way  to  bring 
men  to  good,  and  turn  them  from  the  evil  that  is 
in  their  hearts,  and  that  is  by  attacking  the  errat 
ic  propensity  itself,  and  bringing  them  to  love  the 
goodness  for  mere  goodness'  sake,  and  loathe  the 
evil  simply  because  it  is  morally  loathsome.  Once 
awaken  this  sense  of  moral  beauty  and  moral  ug 
liness  in  a  human  being,  and  you  are  sure  of  your 
man ;  for  it  is  this  same  beauty,  either  of  the 
senses,  the  mind,  the  heart,  or  the  soul,  that  all 
are  perpetually  pursuing.  But  appeal  to  the  mere 
brute  greed  of  man's  nature ;  teach  him  that  he 
can  get  something  by  being  good,  or  avoid  some 
thing  that  he  dislikes  by  respectable  conduct,  and 
depend  upon  it  he  is  certain  to  remain  innately 
bad  at  heart ;  and  instead  of  our  reaping  a  goodly 
harvest  of  golden  grain  in  the  end,  we  shall  find 
that  we  have  raised  merely  a  vile  crop  of  weeds 


and  tares,  in  the  shape  of  worldly  cunning,  lying, 
and  hypocrisy." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  LOWEST  "  RUNGS"  ON  THE  LADDER. 

OLD  Benjamin  Franklin  had  barely  finished  ex 
plaining  to  his  little  nephewwhat  was  his  object 
in  taking  him  to  see  the  sights  he  was  about  to 
show  him  when  they  came  in  view  of  a  large,  ugly, 
overgrown  building,  that  stood  just  at  the  out 
skirts  of  the  town. 

"That  is  '•the  house,'  Ben,"  said  the  uncle,  as 
they  halted  in  front  of  it ;  "  '  the  house,'  as  the 
poor  always  call  it,  for  they  seem  to  think  there  is 
no  other  house  worthy  of  note  in  the  whole  town, 
and  always  speak  of  it  as  the  particular  thing  of 
its  kind,  as  we  do,  indeed,  of  the  sun,  the  air,  the 
sea,  or  even  as  we  say  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  the  Bank." 

The  building  itself  was  of  the  bare,  long,  dead- 
wall,  many-windowed  style  of  architecture  pecul 
iar  to  factories,  barracks,  prisons,  hospitals,  and 
mad-houses.  A  huge  light-house-like  chimney, 
with  a  long  black  plume  of  smoke  rising  above 
the  roof,  would  have  made  one  fancy  it  was  an 
immense  workshop ;  a  few  soldiers  in  their  shirt 
sleeves  at  the  windows,  and  sundry  pairs  of  regi 
mental  trowsers  hanging  to  dry  outside  of  the 
casement,  with  a  sentry  pacing  in  front  of  the 
gate,  would  have  rendered  it  the  perfect  type  of 
a  military  depot  /  or,  had  the  long  lines  of  win 
dows  been  trellised  with  thick  iron  bars,  it  might, 
on  the  other  hand,  have  stood  for  the  county  jail 
or  the  lunatic  asylum ;  while  it  only  wanted  the 
long  board  announcing  that  it  was  "  SUPPORTED 


356  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

BY  VOLUNTARY  CONTRIBUTIONS,"  and  the  little 
money-box  let  into  the  wall  beside  the  door,  to 
have  converted  it  into  an  institution  for  the  cure 
of  certain  diseases. 

Uncle  Benjamin  knocked  at  the  gate,  and  im 
mediately  the  little  square  wicket  was  opened, 
and  the  round,  fat,  ruddy  face  of  the  old  soldier 
who  acted  as  porter  to  the  establishment  appeared 
behind  the  gridiron-like  bars.  The  man  recognized 
the  features  of  the  elder  Benjamin,  and,  knowing 
him  to  be  a  friend  of  the  "  Master,"  the  gate  was 
duly  opened,  and  the  couple  entered  the  yard. 

Close  beside  the  gate  stood  the  square  box  of 
the  porter's  lodge>  which  gave  one  the  idea  of  its 
being  an  enormous  dog-kennel,  placed  there  to 
guard  the  entrance,  while  the  yard  itself  consisted 
of  an  acre  or  two  of  mere  bare  gravel,  and  this 
was  kept  so  tidy,  and  had  been  swept  so  even 
and  rolled  so  flat  that  it  seemed  like  one  large 
sheet  of  sand-paper  spread  over  the  ground,  while 
in  the  middle  of  it  strutted  some  dozen  or  two  of 
pigeons,  as  pompous  and  gorgeous  as  beadles. 

To  cross  the  threshold  of  the  poor-house  ap 
peared  to  the  boy  like  stepping  into  another  coun 
try.  He  had  never  seen  such  a  collection  of  old 
people  before,  nor  indeed  people  so  very  old ;  for 
the  inmates  were  far  older  and  weaker  than  any 
met  with  in  the  street,  while  the  younger  folk 
were,  many  of  them,  either  blind,  crippled,  or  idi 
otic. 

Little  Ben  had  heard  the  deacons  of  his  father's 
chapel  complain,  as  they  sat  chatting  with  Josiah 
in  the  little  back  parlor  in  the  evening,  of  the 
heaviness  of  the  parish  rates,  and  speak  of  the 
paupers  as  "  a  pack  of  lazy  vagabonds,"  and  his 
prejudice  had  been  rather  increased  than  lessened 
by  his  uncle's  exordium  upon  work  and  thrift  as 
the  only  means  of  avoiding  penury. 


THE   LOWEST  "  RUNGS"   ON   THE   LADDER.      357 

But  once  within  those  walls,  the  little  fellow 
was  staggered  with  the  amount  of  worldly  help 
lessness  focused,  as  it  were,  in  that  "  dark  cham 
ber"  of  the  town.  There  was  every  variety  of 
senility,  imbecility,  and  infirmity  gathered  togeth 
er  there,  as  if  it  had  been  a  natural  museum  for 
the  display  of  all  the  peculiar  "  specimens"  of  bodi 
ly  and  mental  inefficiency.  Some  of  the  old  went 
toddling  about  in  their  suits  of  granite-gray,  along 
the  white  border  of  flag-stones  in  front  of  the 
building  itself,  with  all  the  ricketiness  of  baby 
hood  ;  others  scambled  and  shuffled  on,  as  if  pal 
sied  with  weakness  ;  and  other  poor  crooked-back 
things  staggered  onward,  pace  by  pace  at  a  time, 
with  a  stick  in  either  hand  to  prop  them  as  they 
went.  Some,  again,  sat  shaking  on  the  yard  bench 
es  in  places  where  the  sun  fell,  basking  in  the 
warm  beams,  in  the  vain  hope  of  being  warmed 
by  them ;  and  not  a  few  had  their  white  night 
caps  shining  under  their  Greenwich-pensioner-like 
hats,  as  if  they  were  ever  ready  for  sleep,  and 
waiting  for  the  last,  the  long  profound  slumber 
of  all. 

Then  the  big,  owl-like  spectacles  of  some  of  the 
aged  creatures  —  the  mumbling,  toothless  tones, 
and  gasping,  wheezy  voices  of  others  —  the  con 
tinued  asthmatic  coughings  of  almost  all — and  the 
occasional  shouting  of  some  hale  official  into  the 
ear  of  some  one  of  the  crew,  as  the  gaffer  stood 
with  his  face  turned  from  the  speaker,  and  his 
veiny,  shriveled  hand  at  the  side  of  his  head  and 
close  against  the  mouth  of  the  other,  straining  to 
catch  something  like  the  meaning  of  what  was 
said,  all  impressed  the  mind  with  such  a  sense  of 
bodily  and  mental  decay  that  ruin  seemed  stamp 
ed  upon  every  thing  —  not  merely  worldly  ruin, 
but  the  ruin  of  every  human  faculty  too. 

The  boy  couldn't  help  wondering  whether  Tin- 


353  YOUNG   BENJAMIN"   FKANKLIN. 

cle  Ben  or  himself  could  ever  come  to  be  like  one 
of  those. 

Many  of  the  young  things  in  gray,  on  the  other 
hand,  were  almost  as  powerless  in  body  and  mind 
as  the  old.  Some  had  that  peculiar  dropping  of 
the  lower  jaw — that  dangling  of  the  hands  from 
the  joints  of  the  wrists,  and  that  strange  drag 
ging,  scuffling  gait,  as  they  went  about,  that  are 
the  outward  visible  signs  of  an  utter  want  of  an 
inward  and  spiritual  every  thing.  Some,  again, 
were  blind,  and  sat  in  the  sun  with  their  faces  up 
turned,  smiling  vacantly  as  they  rolled  their  white 
opaque  pupils  restlessly  and  uselessly  about,  now 
turning  them  up  half  into  their  heads,  and  now 
wiping  away  the  tears  that  kept  streaming  from 
them ;  not  a  few  went  hopping  along  on  crutch 
es,  or  crouching  down  nearly  to  the  ground,  while 
others  were  bent  almost  double  with  some  horrid 
spinal  deformity. 

Then  there  was  so  curious  and  marked  a  shame- 
lessness,  or  apparent  callousness  in  the  faces  of  all, 
that  this  characteristic  perhaps  struck  the  mind 
with  greater  force  than  any  thing  else,  after  the 
first  impression  of  the  utter  helplessness  of  so 
large  a  number  had  faded  a  little  from  the  mind. 
Young  Ben  naturally  expected  to  find  that  all  who 
had  a  thought  or  feeling  left  would  exhibit  some 
sense  of  worldly  disgrace  or  sorrow  at  being  in 
mates  of  such  a  place,  and  he  even  fancied  that 
wretchedness  and  misery  would  be  seen  in  every 
countenance,  so  that  the  decent-minded  lad  was 
half  shocked  when  he  saw  the  "able-bodied  young 
women"  stare  and  grin  in  his  face  as  they  went  by 
in  their  duster-checked  aprons  and  large  white 
caps.  And  though  he  looked  all  around,  he  could 
not  discover  one  dejected  head,  one  abashed  coun 
tenance,  or  one  tearful  eye  throughout  the  whole 
of  that  wretched  pauper  town. 


THE   LOWEST  "BUNGS"  ON   THE   LADDER.      359 

The  boy  twitched  his  uncle  by  the  skirt,  and 
said  in  a  whisper  to  him, "  Don't  they  feel,  then, 
uncle — don't  they  really  care  about  being  here? 
They  don't  seem  to  think  it  any  disgrace,  that  I 
can  see." 

"  No,  lad,  they  soon  get  settled  down  to  then- 
lot  ;  and  such  as  do  chafe  under  it,  suffer^  more 
from  a  sense  of  persecution  and  wrong  in  the 
world  than  from  any  idea  of  worldly  degrada 
tion,"  answered  the  old  man,  in  an  under  tone,  as 
he  drew  the  lad  to  one  side.  "  If  you  were  to  go 
into  a  debtor's  prison,  Ben,  you'd  be  struck  to 
find  that  not  one  was  confined  there,  according  to 
his  own  story,  for  any  just  debt  of  his.  So  it  is 
here,  lad;  for  the  mind  never  likes  to  see,  and 
therefore  never  sees,  its  own  errors.  All  these 
poor  people  are  here,  they  believe,  from  misfor 
tune,  and  many  assuredly  are  so  too,  boy ',  not  a 
few  are  impressed  with  a  full  sense  of  their  right 
to  the  place,  and  are  ready  to  assert  it  lustily,  I 
can  tell  you ;  but  none  fancy  they  are  here,  depend 
upon  it,  from  any  imprudence  or  vice  of  their 
own ;  though,  if  you  were  to  listen  to  my  friend 
the  master,  he'd  want  to  make  out  to  you  that 
that  was  the  sole  cause  of  every  one  of  them  be 
ing  inside  the  gates." 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  come,  uncle,"  exclaimed  the 
honest  lad ;  "  I  shall  never  think  well  of  the  poor 
again." 

"  Don't  be  hasty,  boy  !"  was  the  mild  reproof. 
"We  are  every  one  of  us  apt  to  sentimentalize 
about  such  matters.  We  always  come  to  such  a 
place  as  this  with  some  preconceived  view—some 
extreme  notion,  either  that  the  poor  are  pitiable, 
persecuted  angels,  or  else  lazy,  drunken,  and  un 
grateful  scoundrels ;  and  if  the  real  poor  don't 
happen  to  square  with  our  imaginary  poor,  why, 
we'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  them.  Do  as  I  do, 


3GO  YOUNG    BEXJAMI3   FRANKLIN. 

boy — strike  the  mean  !  strike  the  mean  !  Don't 
put  thorough  faith  in  the  injured  air  and  misfor 
tune  of  the  paupers  themselves,  nor  yet  in  the  aus 
tere  and  uncharitable  views  of  the  master,  but 
strike  the  mean !  Every  employer  believes  that 
he  overpays  his  workmen,  and  every  workman 
believes  that  he  is  underpaid  by  his  employer — 
strike  the  mean!  Every  mistress  is  under  the 
impression  that  her  servant  doesn't  do  half  what 
she  ought  for  her,  and  every  servant  is  satisfied 
that  her  mistress  '  don't  do  nothink  at  all  for  her.' 
Strike  the  mean,  I  tell  you,  lad  !  always  strike  the 
mean !  And  there  is  but  one  way,  Ben,  of  teach 
ing  either  party  its  errors.  Let  them  change 
places  for  a  while ;  let  one  of  the  paupers  here 
become  the  master,  and  the  master  be  made  a 
pauper,  and,  rely  on  it,  the  master  himself  would 
take  up  the  very  same  ill-used  and  right-demand 
ing  air  of  the  pauper,  and  the  pauper,  on  the 
other  hand,  adopt  the  same  harsh  and  uncharita 
ble  views  as  the  master.  It  is  but  human  nature, 
after  all,  Ben.  Under  the  same  circumstances  the 
generality  of  people  become  the  same  as  others." 

At  this  moment  the  master  of  the  poor-house 
himself  made  his  appearance,  and  walked  with 
them  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  yard. 

"My  little  nephew,"  said  the  uncle,  turning 
to  young  Benjamin,  after  the  greeting  was  over, 
"  is  rather  astonished  to  find  that  the  poor  crea 
tures  here  exhibit  no  signs  of  shame,  and  has  just 
been  asking  whether  they  really  feel  for  their  sit- 


o 

nation." 


"  Feel,  indeed !"  cried  the  master,  with  a  toss 
of  the  head  that  made  the  heavy  bunch  of  keys  he 
carried  jangle  again  in  his  hand.  "  They  hav'n't 
got  the  feelings  of  ordinary  flesh  and  blood,  sir. 
I've  been  master  of  this  here  house,  and  my  good 
woman  the  matron  of  it  three-and-twenty  year 


THE    LOWEST  "  BUNGS      ON    THE    LADDER.       301 

come  next  Michaelmas,  and  think  I  ought  to  have 
learned  a  little  about  the  inmates  of  it  in  that  time 
—eh,  Friend  Franklin  ?" 

"Perhaps  you  have  been  here  a  little  too  long," 
mildly  suggested  old  Benjamin.  "A  surgeon, 
after  long  practice  at  a  hospital,  hardly  believes 
that  there  is  any  feeling  in  people  under  the  knife 
— and  perhaps  it's  better  it  should  be  so." 

"  Bless  you  now !  just  look  here,  Master  Frank 
lin.  You  see  that  young  gal  there — the  one  with 
the  pail,  slouching  along  as  if  she  hadn't  a  bit  of 
life  in  her — don't  let  her  see  you  a-p'inting  to  her, 
my  boy,"  interjected  the  master,  turning  in  the 
opposite  direction,  as  young  Ben  was  about  to 
raise  his  finger  toward  the  quarter  indicated. 
"  Well,  she's  one  of  a  long  generation  of  paupers. 
We've  got  her  mother  here  now,  and  only  buried 
her  grandmother  the  t'other  day.  Now,  if  that 
there  family  has  cost  the  parish  a  penny,  they  must 
have  put  it  to  several  thousand  pounds — yes,  sev 
eral — thousands — of  pounds  expense!"  he  repeat 
ed,  emphasizing  each  word ;  "  and  do  you  think 
there's  the  least  bit  of  gratitude  in  'em  for  it  ?  no, 
not  so  much  as  a  '  thank  you,  sir :'  why,  they've 
even  impudence  enough  to  look  you  in  the  face, 
and  tell  you  it's  their  rights  ! — their  rights,  sir ! 
And  she's  not  one  alone,  Friend  Franklin,  but  one 
of  a  very  large  class,  I  give  you  my  word — a  very 
large  class,  sir." 

IJncle  Benjamin  merely  nodded,  and  the  other 
went  on. 

"  I  have  to  look  about  me  pretty  sharp,  I  can 
tell  you,  Friend  Franklin  ;  and,  though  I've  been 
here  three-and-twenty  year  come  next  Michael 
mas,  as  I  said  before,  I  assure  you  these  people 
here  are  as  well  up  in  the  law  of  settlement  and 
passes,  and  all  that  there  sort  of  thing,  as  I  am 
myself — ay,  and  they  know  the  dietary  scale  by 


362  YOUNG  BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

heart,  from  beginning  to  end,  I  give  you  my  word. 
But  what  annoys  me  more  than  all,  Master  Frank 
lin,  is  the  way  in  which  these  people  can  impose 
upon  our  chaplain,  who  is  a  nice,  kind,  easy  sort 
of  gentleman  enough.  I  don't  know  whether  you 
are  acquainted  with  him ;  but  he's  no  man  of  the 
world,  you  see,  sir — no  man  of  the  world ;"  and 
the  master  put  his  forefinger  right  down  one  side 
of  his  nose,  and  bent  the  organ  slightly  "  out  of 
straight,"  as  he  looked  shrewdly  out  of  the  cor 
ners  of  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  elder  Ben 
jamin.  "  Oh,  lie  is  shamefully  tricked  by  them, 
and  often  places  me  in  a  very  awkward  position 
indeed ;  for  sometimes,  when  I've  been  obliged  to 
report  some  gal  as  riotous  and  disorderly,  for — 
for  pelting  me  with  the  suet  dumplings,  say,  as 
was  the  case  only  last  board-day  with  Mary  Col 
lins,  because  she  said  the  flour  was  musty  and 
the  suet  stinking !  Well,  the  overseers,  as  I  was 
a-going  to  say,  will  turn  to  the  chaplain's  monthly 
statement  to  see  what  he  says  about  the  gal's 
general  behavior,  and  there  they  find  agin  Mary 
Collins'  name  either  that  she  is  '  a-going  on  very 
satisfactorily  indeed,'  or  else  that  he'd  '  every  rea 
son  to  be  gratified  with  her  conduct,'  I  forget 
which." 

Uncle  Benjamin  loved  a  joke  well  enough  to 
be  able  to  laugh  at  the  discomfiture  even  of  his 
friend  the  master,  and  merely  chuckled  out  that 
such  conflicting  statements  must  be  awkward, 
certainly. 

"  Yes  ;  the  deceit  of  these  people  really  sur 
passes  belief,  sir,  I  give  you  my  word ;  and  our 
poor  chaplain  isn't  a  match  for  them  by  a  long 
way.  Now,  to  give  you  another  instance,  there's 
Elizabeth  Davis  —  I  saw  her  in  the  yard  just 
now,"  he  broke  oif,  looking  all  about  to  find  the 
woman  —  "well,  I  suppose  she's  gone  into  the 


THE  LOWEST   "  KUNGS"    ON   THE  LADDER.     363 

laundry  again,  but  never  mind — as  I  was  a-say- 
ing  about  Elizabeth  Davis,  you'd  fancy  butter 
wouldn't  melt  in  her  mouth,  sir,  and  she  has  a 
tongue  that  would  wheedle  a  charitable  donation 
out  of  a  pawnbroker.  Well,  sir,  she's  engaged  in 
our  laundry ;  for,  of  course,  I  needn't  tell  you  we  do 
all  our  washing  here  ourselves ;  and  we  allow  the 
women  engaged  at  the  wash-tubs,  and  a  few  other 
perquisite  women,  who  do  the  hard  work  of  the 
house,  just  half  a  pint  of  porter  after  they've  done 
their  work.  Now  our  porter,  Mister  Franklin,  is 
sitch  porter  as  it's  impossible  to  buy  in  the  town. 
It  comes  to  us,  you  see,  direct  from  the  brewery, 
and  is  the  real  genuine  article,  I  can  assure  you. 
It  wasn't  certainly  the  correct  thing  when  the 
Phoenix  brewery  had  the  contract ;  but  since  we 
accepted  the  tender  of  the  '  Star,'  there  hasn't 
been  a  fault  to  find  with  it,  I  give  you  my  honor. 
Oh,  it  really  is  a  superb  glass  of  beer ;  indeed, 
our  beadle  declares  it's  the  best  glass  of  beer  he 
ever  tasted  in  all  his  life.  Well,  sir,  let  me  see, 
where  was  I  ? — oh,  I  was  saying  that  that  there 
Elizabeth  Davis — Ha !  there  the  woman  is  now," 
he  broke  off ;  "just  come  out  of  the  '  old  women's 
ward,'  with  her  sleeves  tucked  up,  and  her  hands 
all  white  and  shriveled  with  the  washing.  D'ye 
see  ?  there,  she's  dropping  us  a  courtesy,  for  she 
takes  you  for  one  of  our  select  vestry,  I  dare  say. 
Well,  sir,  that  there  woman  had  her  half  pint 
sarved  out  after  her  work  the  other  day,  and 
shortly  after  that,  in  she  bounces  into  my  room, 
with  the  pannikin  in  her  hand,  and  says,  as  she 
slaps  it  down  on  the  table  afore  me,  'This  here 
beer's  not  fit  to  give  a  pig !'  '  What's  the  matter 
with  it,  Davis?'  says  I,  quite  gently.  'Matter 
with  it !' says  she ;  '  why  it's  warjus.'  Yes,  that's 
what  the  woman  called  it;  she  did  indeed,  sir. 
'Verjuice,  Davis!'  says  I,  quite  gently,  but  still 


3G4  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

impressively ;  '  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
self  to  apply  such  wicked  terms  to  the  good 
things  that  the  Almighty  and  the  parish  overseers 
provide  for  you,  to  comfort  you  in  your  poverty 
and  time  of  tribulation.'  <  The  parish  overseers 
be  shot !'  she  exclaims.  Did  you  ever  hear  such 
terrible  language,  Friend  Franklin  ?  '  It's  them 
as  pays  rates,'  she  goes  on, '  like  my  poor  husband 
did  for  more  than  ten  long  year,  as  finds  us  in 
what  we're  allowed;  and  my  dues  is  what  I'll 
have,  too,  I  can  tell  you,  old  un' — yes,  sir,  she 
called  me  'old  un;'  she  did,  upon  my  honor! 
'  Well,'  says  I,  still  quite  gently,  but  firmly,  you 
know,  'there's  no  other  beer  for  you  than  this 
here,  Davis;  and  as  for  its  being  in  the  least 
pricked,  it's  all  idle  fancy.'  « Pricked !'  roars  she ; 
'  what's  that  ?'  '  Why,  sour,'  says  I,  never  losing 
myself  a  bit.  '  I  tell  you  it  is  sour,'  she  bellows 
out.  '  I  tell  you  it  is  not  sour,'  I  answers,  still 
mildly,  but  more  firmly  than  ever.  '  Taste  it  your 
self,  then,'  says  she  ;  whereupon,  like  a  fool,  I  did 
raise  the  pannikin  to  my  lips ;  but  I  no  sooner  got 
it  there  than  the  artful,  spiteful  hussy  gives  the 
tin  a  knock  at  the  bottom,  and  sends  the  whole 
of  the  beer  right  into  my  face,  all  down  my  neck 
and  over  my  clean  shirt-front,  till,  I  give  you  my 
word,  my  frill  was  like  a  piece  of  soaked  brown 
paper." 

Uncle  Benjamin  tried  to  look  serious,  but  it  was 
more  than  either  he  or  Ben  could  do ;  so  they  had 
resort  to  their  handkerchiefs,  and  smothered  their 
laughter  in  the  linen. 

"  Well,  friend,  of  course  that  there  was  a  breach 
of  discipline,"  continued  the  poor-house  master, 
"  that  I  couldn't  possibly  pass  by  unnoticed ;  so 
I  not  only  stopped  the  woman's  snuff  and  her 
weekly  ounce  of  sugar,  but  I  reported  her  to  the 
overseers  at  the  very  next  meeting;  and  when 


THE    LOWEST    "  RUNGS"    ON    THE    LADDER.      365 

they  had  heerd  my  case,  and  agreed  that  it  was 
something  more  than  disorderly  and  refractory, 
and  amounted  almost  to  open  rebellion — yes,  re 
bellion,  Friend  Franklin,  they  referred  as  usual  to 
the  chaplain's  book  to  see  what  kind  of  a  general 
karackter  the  woman  had  before  making  their 
award ;  and  there,  agin  her  name,  were  these  here 
very  words — let  me  see,  how  did  it  run  ?  for  I've 
no  wish  to  sp'ile  it,  I  can  tell  you : 

" '  JElizabet/i  Davis — conduct  exemplary — obeys 
cheerfully — works  hard  and  willingly — is  regular 
at  her  devotions — and  altogether  her  moral  and 
religious  deportment  of  a  very  pleasing  and  con 
soling  character.'' " 

Ben  hardly  knew  which  he  disliked  the  more — 
Elizabeth  Davis,  or  the  master  of  the  poor-house 
himself;  and  he  was  not  at  all  sorry  when  Uncle 
Ben  proposed,  in  order  to  stop  the  long  list  of 
grievances  that  the  wretched,  ill-used  master  was 
about  to  treat  them  to,  that  "the  youngster  there" 
should  be  allowed  to  inspect  the  "  boy's  side"  of 
the  establishment. 

As  the  master  led  the  way,  the  elder  Benjamin 
nudged  the  younger  one  with  his  elbow,  and 
whispered  under  his  little  three-cornered  hat, 
"  Strike  the  mean,  Ben !  strike  the  mean !" 

Once  in  the  passages,  the  smell  of  pauperism 
was  marked  and  strong.  The  whole  place  reeked 
with  the  true  poor-house  perfume,  which  was  a 
compound  of  the  peculiar  odor  of  bread,  gruel, 
treacle,  corduroys,  pea-soup,  soft  soap,  boiled  rice, 
and  washing ;  and  as  Ben  and  his  uncle  followed 
the  master,  who  went  along  with  his  keys  jangling 
like  a  wagon-team,  the  yellow  sand  kept  scrunch 
ing  as  though  it  were  so  much  sugar  under  the 
feet ;  for  not  a  board  nor  a  flagstone  in  the  place 
but  was  as  scrupulously  clean  and  carefully  sand 
ed  as  the  entrance  to  a  livery-stable. 


366  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

They  had  not  proceeded  far,  however,  ere  one 
of  the  pauper  officials — an  "  in-doors'  man,"  who 
had  been  promoted  to  the  post  of  wardsman — 
came  hurrying  after  the  master,  saying,  "  Oh,  if 
you  please,  sir,  there's  three  ounces  of  port  wine 
wanted  for  the  infirmary ;  and  quick,  please,  sir." 
So  the  two  Benjamins  had  to  be  thrust  into  the 
bare  and  empty  board-room,  there  to  wait  while 
the  master  retired  to  the  store-room  to  see  the 
quantum  of  wine  duly  measured  out. 

The  boy  was  no  sooner  in  the  large,  desolate- 
looking  apartment  than  he  began  staring  up  at 
the  walls,  and  wheeling  round  and  round,  like  a 
countryman  in  a  strange  city — now  reading  the 
large  painted  table  of  "  rules  and  regulations  con 
cerning  disorderly  and  refractory  paupers,"  and 
now  studying  the  printed  and  varnished  broad 
sheet,  headed  "Dietary  table,"  and  which,  with 
a  surveyor's  plan  of  the  parish  and  its  boundaries, 
and  an  enormous  map  of  the  city,  that  was  mount 
ed  after  the  fashion  of  a  window-blind,  were  sev 
erally  made  to  do  duty  for  pictures  against  the 
walls.  Then  the  boy  ran  off  to  look  at  the  only 
painting  in  the  room,  which  hung  above  the  man 
tle-piece,  and  which  proved  to  be  the  portrait  of 
"  MAKGAKET  FLEMING,"  who,  as  the  inscription 
said,  "DIED  IN  THIS  HOUSE,  AGED  103."  Next  he 
was  counting  the  number  of  mahogany  chairs  that 
were  drawn  up  in  single  file  along  the  skirting- 
board  all  round  the  room,  and  so  finding  out  how 
many  "select  vestrymen"  were  in  the  habit  of 
sitting,  on  full  board  days,  at  that  big  horseshoe 
table,  that  was  as  green  and  bare  as  a  billiard- 
board,  and  which,  with  the  high-backed  chair 
standing  alone,  throne-like,  at  the  upper  end, 
seemed  almost  to  fill  the  entire  apartment. 

But  in  another  minute  the  master  was  with 
them  again,  and  telling  them,  as  he  went  jangling 


THE   LOWEST   "KUNGS"    ON   THE   LADDER.      367 

along  the  corridors,  that  he  was  afraid  "the  port 
wine  would  be  utterly  wasted,  for  the  poor  old 
thing  it  was  wanted  for  was  turned  seventy,  and 
had  been  sinking  for  many  days ;  but  their  sur 
geon  was  such  a  fool,  and  really  seemed  to  fancy 
they  got  their  port  from  the  pump." 

Then,  as  they  passed  through  the  women's 
ward,  a  hundred  old  crones,  in  blue  check  gowns 
and  big  white  caps  suddenly  rose  from  the  forms, 
and  kept  courtesying  one  after  another  as  the 
visitors  walked  along  between  the  deal  tables, 
and  bobbing  away  like  so  many  floats  experien 
cing  a  rapid  succession  of  nibbles.  Here,  too,  Ben 
saw  the  sleek  and  fat  poor-house  cat  curled  up 
asleep  in  one  of  the  old  women's  aprons,  while 
the  arms  of  another  were  laden  with  "little 
Roger  Connell,"  one  of  the  children  out  of  the 
poor-house  nursery  that  the  hirsute  old  female 
pauper  had  begged  the  loan  of  to  mind  for  a 
while,  and  whom  she  was  fondling  as  if  it  had 
been  her  own,  even  though  the  poor  pretty-fea 
tured  little  thing  was  a  mass  of  sore  with  the 
scurvy. 

"  Yes,  Master  Franklin,  you  can  get  these  here 
old  things  to  do  any  thing  if  you'll  only  let  'em 
have  one  of  the  little  children  out  of  our  nursery 
to  pet  for  an  hour  or  two,"  said  the  master,  as  he 
passed  out  of  the  ward,  and  came  to  the  door  at 
the  bottom  of  the  yard  that  led  to  the  'boy's  side' 
of  the  building.  "  Bless  you,  ugly  or  pretty  is  all 
the  same  to  them,  so  long  as  they're  young;  that's 
the  only  beauty  in  their  eyes,"  he  went  on,  while 
he  found  the  proper  key  for  the  lock,  and  then 
paused  for  a  minute  before  turning  it.  "I  do 
verily  believe  now,  that,  selfish  as  they  are  to  one 
another,  they'd  even  give  a  goodish  part  of  their 
week's  bounce  of  sugar  away  to  the  young  ones, 
and  that  the  allowance  might  just  as  well  be  cut 


363  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

off  altogether,  leastwise  for  the  matter  of  good  it 
is  to  the  old  people  theirselves." 

The  yard  door  was  then  opened,  and  instantly 
there  burst  upon  the  ear  a  shrill  babel  of  voices. 
Here  the  air  above  was  spotted  over  with  a  per 
fect  covey  of  half-developed  tadpole-like  kites, 
while  the  branches  of  the  trees  outside  the  walls 
of  the  large  quadrangle  were  festooned  with  the 
tattered  remains  of  the  tails  and  wings  of  others 
that  had  got  entangled  among  the  boughs. 

"  There  they  are,  my  lad,"  cried  the  master,  as 
he  threw  open  the  door,  and  hardly  moved  beyond 
it;  "this  is  their  hour's  play:  there  they  are,  sir, 
of  all  ages  and  sizes,  ay,  and  shapes  too,  though 
we  keep  the  most  helpless  of  the  young,  sitch  as 
the  blind  and  the  hidiotic,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
house,  as  you  saw.  Some,  you  perceive,  can  hard 
ly  walk  steadily,  and  others  are  big  enough  to  be 
out  and  knocking  about  in  the  world  for  their 
selves,  instead  of  heating  the  bread  of  hidleness, 
which  is  the  very  'best  seconds'  as  they  get  here. 
There  they  are,  my  lad,  and  a  greater  pack  of 
young  wagabones  there  isn't  to  be  found  any 
where  else  in  the  world,  I  can  safely  say." 

"  Where  are  their  fathers  and  mothers  ?"  asked 
little  Ben,  timidly,  for  he  was  almost  afraid  to  put 
a  question  to  the  man. 

"  Fathers  and  mothers !  Lor'  bless  your  hinno- 
cence,  child !  why,  the  greater  part — ay,  two  out 
of  every  three  on  'em  never  knew  sitch  luxuries," 
answered  the  master,  with  a  chuckle.  "  They're 
orphans — horphans  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the 
word"  (for  extra  emphasis  always  involved  an  ex 
tra  aspiration  with  the  master) ;  "  and  even  the 
parents  of  them  as  has  got  either  a  father  or  a 
mother  ain't  nothing  to  brag  about,  I  can  tell  you, 
for  they're  either  in  the  poor-house  theirselves,  or 
else  they're  able-bodied,  and  getting  their  shilling 


a  week  and  their  gallon  loaf  outdoor  relief  the 
most  on  'em." 

Uncle  Benjamin  couldn't  help  shrugging  his 
shoulders  and  crying  "  God  help  'em !"  as  the  ut 
ter  helplessness  of  the  young,  born  under  such 
circumstances,  fell  upon  his  mind  with  even  more 
terrible  force  than  the  helplessness  of  the  old. 

"Ay,  you  may  well  say  'God  'elp  'em!'  Master 
Franklin,  for  a  greater  set  of  young  himps  never 
wanted  their  hearts  softened  more  than  they  do ; 
and,  d'ye  know,  I  verily  believe,  sir,  that  comfort 
able  places  like  this  here  hactually  breed  the  very 
misery  they're  meant  to  give  relief  to — outdoor 
or  indoor,  as  the  case  may  be.  Why,  nearly  half 
of  these  lads  is  fondlings,  as  they  call  theirselves; 
for  they're  a  great  deal  quicker  at  that  there  kind 
of  knowledge,  about  fondlings,  and  foster-mothers, 
and  sitch  like,  than  they  are  at  their  hymn-books, 
I  can  tell  you.  A  great  many  on  'em  has  been 
picked  up  by  the  city  watchmen  on  door-steps  or 
under  gateways,  and  a  goodish  number  been  tied 
in  fish-baskets  to  the  knockers  of  houses ;  and 
them  as  has  been  brought  here  in  that  there  way, 
why,  they  have  been  born  in  the  house  itself,  and 
are  what  the  world  falsely  calls  love  children  ; 
though  a  nice  lot  of  love  there  must  be  about  sitch 
mothers,  I  say,  as  can  turn  their  backs  upon  their 
own  flesh  and  blood  as  soon  as  the  little  tilings 
comes  into  the  world,  and  never  care  to  set  eyes 
on  'em  afterward,  but,  on  the  contrayry,  throws 
the  whole  burden  upon  the  parish  and  the  re 
spectable  rate-payers — ay,  and  what's  more,  are 
as  himperent  to  our  beadle  over  it  as  if  they'd  a 
perfect  right  to  make  us  a  present  of  a  whole  col 
ony." 

"  Well,  they  don't  seem  to  be  very  miserable,  I 
must  say,"  exclaimed  young  Ben,  still  harping  on 
the  most  striking  feature  of  all  in  such  scenes. 
A  A 


370  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

"  Miserable !"  echoed  the  poor-house  master  ; 
"  why,  you  seem  to  be  one  of  those  persons,  my 
boy,  who  come  here  with  the  notion  that  there 
will  be  nothing  but  tears  and  broken  hearts  to  be 
seen  from  one  end  of  the  building  to  the  other. 
Miserable !"  he  repeated,  and  then  burst  out 
laughing,  as  if  there  was  something  extremely 
comic  in  the  idea.  "  Hem  !  miserable,  indeed  ! 
No,  no,  my  lad,  all  the  misery  in  the  world  you'll 
find  outside  our  gates.  People  don't  come  here 
to  be  miserable,  I  can  tell  you,  but  to  be  a  great 
deal  too  well  fed  and  taken  care  of,  in  my  opinion. 
Just  read  our  dietary  table  now,  and  you'll  soon 
discover  that  there  isn't  much  misery  where  peo 
ple  can  have  their  three  ounces  of  cooked  meat 
without  bone,  and  a  pound  of  potatoes  for  dinner 
three  times  a  week,  besides  a  basin  of  excellent  pea- 
soup — oh  yes,  you  have  tasted  it,  Friend  Frank 
lin — and  potatoes  and  suet  dumpling  on  the  other 
days.  Misery,  indeed !  Yes,  but  it's  good  full- 
bellied,  warm -backed,  and  well -housed  misery 
though ;  and  there  isn't  a  merrier  set  of  young 
devil-may-cares  than  them  same  fatherless  young 
himps  here,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Come,  come,  now,  friend,"  cried  Uncle  Ben, 
who  could  plainly  see  that  his  godson  was  being 
led  astray  by  the  harsh  views  of  the  hardened 
master,  "  steady,  my  boy,  stead-ee,  as  they  call  to 
the  helmsman.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me" — and 
the  old  man  kept  shaking  his  forefinger  as  he  said 
the  words  slowly  and  solemnly — "that  when  some 
parent  or  friend  comes  to  visit  some  of  the  more 
lucky  of  these  poor  human  waifs  and  strays,  and 
there's  a  cry  of  'Johnson  wanted,'  or  'Robertson 
wanted'  (as  I've  heard  go  round  the  yard  over 
and  over  again),  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  those 
boys,  who  know  they  haven't  a  friend  in  the 
>vorld  to  come  and  see  them,  poor  chicks — boys 


*THE   LOWEST    "  KUNGS"    ON   THE    LADDER.     371 

who  have  never  so  much  as  set  eyes  perhaps  on  a 
parent's  face,  or  known  what  a  mother's  smile  is 
like — do  you  mean  to  say,  man  alive" — and  Uncle 
Ben  shook  his  finger  violently  close  under  the 
master's  nose — "that  such  lads  (quickened  with 
the  same  heart  and  blood  as  you  yourself),  when 
they  see  the  lucky  Johnson,  or  Robertson,  or  son 
of  somebody  or  other  go  skipping  off  to  the  re 
ception-ward,  and  come  back  playing  with  his 
halfpenny,  or  laden  with  his  half  pint  of  nuts  or 
his  farthing  popgun — do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  I 
say,  that  you  haven't  noted,  as  I  have,  the  little 
wretched,  lonely,  helpless,  friendless  things  crowd 
moodily  together,  and  look  at  one  another  with 
the  same  kind  of  powerless  and  bewildered  air 
as  one  sees  in  a  flock  of  sheep  gathered  outside 
a  butcher's  door  ?  Come,  come,  friend,  you're 
straining  the  bow  a  little  too  hard — a  little  too 
hard." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you're  right,  friend,"  rejoined 
the  master,  in  a  conciliatory  tone.  "  You,  as  a 
stranger,  I  dare  say,  will  observe  things  that  are 
lost  upon  old  hands  like  us ;  and  one  forgets,  no 
doubt,  that  it's  as  remarkable  a  thing  here  for  n, 
boy  to  have  any  friends  at  all,  as  it  is  for  an  out- 
of-doors  boy  to  be  without  them ;  so  I  shouldn't 
wonder,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  but  the  rarity 
of  a  father  or  mother  may  in  such  cases  as  you 
say  make  some  of  the  young  hurchins  here  feel 
the  misery  of  having  no  one  whom  they  can  be 
come  chargeable  to.  Yes,  that  there  must  be 
hunpleasant  to  think  of,  certainly — not  legally 
chargeable  to  any  one.  Besides,  we  all  know," 
urged  the  master,  as  he  endeavored  to  fall  in  with 
the  tone  of  Uncle  Benjamin,  "  how  the  boys  at 
other  schools  always  feel  for  the  one  who  never 
goes  home  to  see  his  friends  in  the  holidays ;  and 
so  here,  I  dare  say,  the  great  wonder  of  the  time 


8T2  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

is  the  boy  who  has  got  any  friends  to  wish  to  see 
him,  especially  in  a  place,  too,  where  there  can't 
be  any  holidays,  you  know,  from  the  simple  fact 
that  there  are  no  homes  to  go  to." 

"  How  shocking !"  shuddered  Ben,  with  the 
sense  of  school  and  holidays  fresh  upon  him ;  "but 
I  should  like  the  poor  boys  better,"  he  added,  "  if 
they  seemed  to  feel  their  situation  more,  for  real 
ly  they  don't  appear  to  me  to  care  about  it ;  so 
then  I  say  to  myself,  If  they  don't  care  about  it, 
why  should  If" 

"That's  good,  sound,  sterling  sense,  if  you  like, 
my  boy !"  added  the  master,  approvingly ;  and 
then,  drawing  the  little  fellow  close  up  to  him,  he 
said,  as  he  bent  down  and  placed  his  head  close 
beside  young  Ben's,  "Now,  you  see  all  those  lads 
there  in  the  red  worsted  comforters,  my  child  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  young  Ben ;  and  he  was  about  to 
point  toward  them  with  his  forefinger,  but  the 
master  seized  his  hand  as  the  boy  was  in  the  act 
of  raising  it. 

"  Well,  lad,"  went  on  the  other, "  the  parish  al 
lowance  in  the  shape  of  neck-tie  to  fasten  the  shirt 
collar  is  merely  a  piece  of  black  cotton  shoe-rib 
bon,  and  that  there  red  worsted  comforter,  to  keep 
the  throat  and  chest  warm,  has  been  bought  by 
the  friends  of  those  boys  who  are  lucky  enough 
to  have  such  a  thing  as  a  friend  in  the  world ;  so 
now  you  can  pick  them  out  for  yourself.  No 
friends,  no  comforters — d'ye  see  ?"  * 

It  was  terrible  for  the  little  soft-hearted  fellow 
to  be  able  to  realize  the  orphanage  of  such  a  mul 
titude  in  so  visible  and  massive  a  manner ;  and  as 
his  eye  wandered  over  the  quadrangle,  he  kept 
saying  to  himself,  "  Comforters,  fathers  and  moth 
ers  !  no  fathers  and  mothers,  no  comforters !" 

"  But  I  tell  you,  Friend  Franklin,  what  is  to  my 
mind  really  the  most  dreadful  thing  by  far  in  con- 


THE  LOWEST    "  RUNGS"    ON   THE   LADDER.     313 

nection  with  this  kind  of  life,"  the  master  proceed 
ed,  "  and  that  is  what  we  were  talking  about  only 
the  other  day :  that  boys  and  girls  brought  up 
here  have  no  idea  of  working  in  order  to  live. 
You  know  they  see  day  after  day — and,  indeed, 
have  seen  ever  since  they  first  opened  their  eyes 
— some  hundred  or  so  of  people  regularly  supplied 
with  their  rations,  and  that  without  having  any 
thing  to  pay  or  any  thing  to  do  for  the  food.  Do 
you  know,  I  do  verily  believe,  Friend  Franklin, 
that  many  even  of  our  big  boys  here,  and  I'm  sure 
almost  all  of  our  little  ones,  fancy  that  Nature 
sends  breakfasts  and  suppers  in  the  same  way  as 
she  sends  light  and  darkness ;  and  I'm  nearly  cer 
tain,  if  some  of  our  indoors  boys  were  hard  push 
ed  on  the  matter  as  to  where  bread  or  gruel  came 
from,  you'd  find  there  was  some  vague  idea  in 
their  minds  that  half-gallon  loaves  were  dug  up 
out  of  the  ground,  something  in  the  same  manner 
as  they've  seen  the  men,  in  their  walks  through 
the  town,  doing  with  the  paving -stones  in  the 
streets ;  and  that  gruel  is  as  easily  to  be  collected 
in  tubfuls  as  the  rain-water  is  caught  for  our 
washing." 

"  What  would  they  fancy  a  half  guinea  was, 
think  you,  if  they  were  to  be  shown  one  ?"  asked 
Uncle  Ben,  as  he  drew  the  bit  of  gold  out  of  the 
wash-leather  bag  he  carried  in  his  pocket. 

"  Well,  'pon  my  word  I  can't  say,  Friend  Frank 
lin.  Farthings  are  great  prizes  here,"  returned 
the  master,  "  and  groats  immense  fortunes.  But 
here !  come  here  !  you  '  Monday.'  '  Monday,  I 
say,' "  the  master  shouted,  as  he  beckoned  to  one 
of  the  foundlings,  who  had  been  named  after  the 
day  of  the  week  on  which  he  had  been  taken  out 
of  a  hamper  at  the  mail-coach  office. 

And  when  poor  "Monday"  had  made  his  ap 
pearance,  and  had  been  shown  the  bright  yellow 


374  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

little  disk  of  metal,  and  asked  what  he  thought  it 
was,  he  said,  as  he  rubbed  among  the  bristles  of 
his  scrubbing-brush  crop  of  hair,  and  stood  grin 
ning  as  if  he  had  been  looking  at  a  stale-tart  tray 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life, "  It  ain't  a  farden, 
'cos  I  seed  a  farden  once  in  Dobbs's  hand,  after 
his  mother  had  been  to  see  him,  and  she's  got  two 
and  six  a  week,  and  half  a  gallon  loaf  outdoor, 
you  know,  sir,  'cos  she  takes  in  washing,  and  has 
the  rheumatiz.  No,  no,"  and  he  shook  his  hand 
till  you  could  almost  fancy  you  heard  it  rattle,  it 
seemed  so  empty,  "it  ain't  thick  enough,  nor 
brown  enough  neither  for  a  farden.  Oh,  I  know 
now !"  added  the  half-witted  boy,  looking  up  at 
the  master,  and  grinning  knowingly  in  his  face. 

"  Well,  '  Monday,'  what  is  it,  eh  ?"  asked  the 
master,  as  sharp  and  quickly  as  a  mail-coach 
guard  calls  "  a'right." 

The  lad  grinned  again  for  a  minute  or  two  be 
fore  answering,  and  then  said,  "  Why,  it's  one  of 
the  brass  buttons  off  some  charity-boy's  leather 
breeches." 

Poor  "  Monday,"  whose  life,  ever  since  he  had 
been  taken  out  of  his  natal  hamper,  had  been  hem 
med  in  by  the  four  high  brick  walls  of  the  poor- 
house,  and  who,  had  he  heard  by  chance  of  the 
upper,  middle,  and  lower  classes  of  society,  would 
have  fancied  it  pointed  out  the  distinction,  be 
tween  overseers,  outdoors  people,  and  indoors  peo 
ple — the  poor  lad  was  told  "  that  would  do,"  and 
"he  might  go ;"  and  directly  his  back  was  turned 
the  master  began  rolling  about  in  a  very  convul 
sion  of  pent-up  laughter,  declaring  he  had  never 
heard  any  thing  half  so  funny  in  all  his  life.  But 
Uncle  Ben  and  even  his  little  nephew  saw  in  the 
worldly  ignorance  of  poor  "  Monday"  something 
far  too  grave  to  be  merry  over ;  so  the  godfather 
and  the  godson  looked  sorrowfully  at  each  other, 


It  ain't  a  farclen,  'coa  I  seed  a  farden  once. 


and  each  knew  by  the  tenderness  of  the  glance 
the  thoughts  that  were  stirring  in  the  other's 
heart. 

"  Oh,  I'm  wanted,  I  see,  up  in  the  infirmary. 
Ah !  I  thought  that  port  wine  would  be  thrown 
away !  so  you'll  excuse  me,  Friend  Franklin,  will 
you  ?"  said  the  master,  as  he  shook  the  other  by 
the  hand.  "Drop  in  whenever  you're  passing, 
will  you,  for  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  talk  over 
these  matters  with  you.  Good-by,  my  fine  little 
fellow  ;  good-by,  friend ;"  and,  as  Uncle  Ben  said 
something  to  him  aside,  he  said,  "  Oh  yes,  of 
course  I  shall  be  happy  to  give  you  a  letter  to 
the  governor.  Good-by;  I  wouldn't  leave  you, 
but  I  have  to  see  about  the  shell  and  things,  you 
know." 

"  Come  along,  Ben,"  cried  the  uncle,  pulling  his 
waistcoat  down  as  the  master  hurried  from  them ; 
but,  though  the  old  man  began  to  move,  the  lit 
tle  fellow  seemed  in  no  way  disposed  to  follow. 
"  Come,  Ben,  I  say,  there's  the  jail  to  see  yet,"  he 
added,  as  he  turned  round  and  found  the  boy  still 
in  the  same  spot. 

The  little  fellow  jerked  his  head  as  the  uncle 
looked  back  at  him.  The  old  man  understood 
the  signal,  and  returned  to  the  boy's  side. 

"  Whisper,"  said  young  Ben. 

The  elder  Benjamin  stooped  down  and  put  his 
ear  close  to  the  lad's  lips,  and  as  he  caught  what 
the  other  said,  the  old  man  smiled  to  hear  the 
words. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  TJncle  Ben. 

The  next  minute  the  little  fellow  was  scamper 
ing  after  poor  "  Monday,"  and  the  minute  after 
scampering  back  again  to  his  uncle,  who  stood 
watching  him  at  the  gate. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  iny  little  man,"  said  the 
godfather  to  young  Ben ;  and,  as  the  boy  did  so, 


3T8  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

the  old  man  shook  it  as  if  his  heart  was  in  his 
palm,  and  then  on  the  couple  toddled — 
To  the  jail. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"LOWER  AND  LOWER  STILL." 

FROM  the  poor-house  to  the  jail  some  think  it 
is  not  a  very  great  remove — at  least  some  social 
topographers  would  have  us  believe  so. 

But  such  people  throw  all  the  refuse  of  society 
together  into  one  confused  heap,  which  they  call 
"  the  dangerous  classes,"  and  it  is  only  your  pick- 
ers-up  of  unconsidered  trifles  that  pause  to  sepa 
rate  the  rags  from  the  bones. 

The  agricultural  poacher  is  not  more  distinct 
from  the  civic  pickpocket  than  is  the  stock-pauper 
from  the  stock-thief,  or  the  dull-witted  and  half- 
fatuous  beggar,  for  instance,  from  the  cunning 
and  adventurous  sharper;  and  such  is  the  caste 
and  cliquery  in  even  the  "bas  monde"  that  a 
"  cracksman"  would  no  more  think  of  fraterniz 
ing  with  a  "  shallow  cove"  than  a  barrister  would 
dream  of  hobnobbing  with  an  attorney,  or  even  a 
"  wholesale"  venture  to  return  the  call  of  a  "  re 
tail"  in  the  petty  circle  of  suburban  exclusiveness. 

The  jail  that  TJncle  Ben  took  his  godson  to  see 
was  the  jail  proper.  It  had  the  fashionable  gi 
gantic  stone  gate,  with  festoons  and  tassels  of  fet 
ters  by  way  of  ornamental  work  arranged  over 
the  doorway;  and  enormous  unwieldy  doors, 
knobbed  over  with  square-headed  nails  as  thickly 
as  the  sole  of  a  navigator's  boot,  and  punctuated 
with  a  couple  of  huge  lions'-head  knockers,  that 
reminded  one  of  the  masks  in  a  pantomime.  The 
walls  were  as  high  as  those  of  a  racket-ground ; 


379 

and  all  along  the  top  of  them  extended  a  long 
bristly-hog's-mane,  as  it  were,  of  chevavx  defrise, 
that  looked  like  a  hedge  of  bayonets. 

Uncle  Ben  and  the  boy  were  admitted  through 
an  opening  in  the  larger  gate,  and  went  in,  duck 
ing  their  heads  under  the  aperture  somewhat  aft 
er  the  manner  of  fowls  entering  a  hen-roost. 

"  Lett'r  for  th'  gov'nor,"  shouted  the  military- 
looking  gate-keeper,  in  a  sharp  military  tone,  as 
he  handed  the  note  Uncle  Ben  had  brought  with 
him  to  a  stray  warder,  or  turnkey  as  they  were 
called  in  those  days. 

The  official  disappeared  with  the  document, 
and  the  old  man  and  the  boy  were  asked  to  step 
into  the  gate-room  while  they  awaited  the  answer. 

"  Just  look,  uncle,"  said  the  lad,  in  a  whisper, 
as  he  entered  the  place  almost  with  fear  and 
trembling,  "just  look  at  the  blunderbusses  and 
cutlasses  all  chained  together  up  there" — there 
were  several  rows  of  the  clumsy  brass-barreled 
pieces  and  knobby-handled  swords  arranged  over 
the  fireplace — "  and  look  at  the  lot  of  handcuffs 
and  irons  too ;  just  look  how  tastily  they're  ar 
ranged — all  over  the  walls,  I  declare ;"  and  he 
wheeled  round  and  round,  taken  with  the  set  pat 
terns  and  bright  glitter  of  the  well-polished  man 
acles,  that  had  been  embroidered,  as  it  were,  into 
all  kinds  of  lineal  devices  on  every  side  of  the 
cell-like  lodge.  There  were  swivel  handcuffs,  that 
looked  like  big  horses'  bits,  and  close-linked  chains, 
like  horses'  curbs ;  the  one  strung  after  the  fash 
ion  of  keys  on  enormous  rings,  and  the  other  hang 
ing  in  great  hanks  like  so  much  iron  yarn.  The 
upper  part  of  the  wyalls,  again,  were  garlanded 
round  with  leg-irons  and  ankle-cuffs ;  and  there 
were  iron  neck-pieces  that  were  like  heavy  muffin- 
tins,  and  iron  waistbands  that  were  almost  as 
thick  as  the  ring  to  an  Indiaman's  anchor.  Some 


380  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

of  the  human  harness  seemed  to  have  been  made 
— so  massive  was  the  style  of  ironmongery — for 
the  renowned  race  of  Cornish  giants ;  for  a  few 
of  the  manacles  were  literally  as  large  as  the  han 
dle  to  a  navigator's  spade,  while  others,  again, 
were  such  mere  miniature  things  that  they  look 
ed  positively  as  if  they  were  meant  for  babies,  be 
ing  no  bigger  in  compass  than  a  little  girl's  brace 
let,  though  twenty  times  heavier ;  and  the  sight 
of  these  set  one  thinking  either  that  the  juvenile 
oifenders  must  be  very  strong  and  desperate,  or 
the  jailers  very  pusillanimous  and  weak. 

"  Oh  my !"  cried  Ben,  as  he  made  the  tour  of 
the  room,  and  halted  in  front  of  an  enormous  long 
pole,  with  an  immense  crutch  covered  with  leath 
er  at  the  end  of  it,  and  which  had  somewhat  the 
appearance  of  a  Brobdignagian  pitchfork ;  "  what 
ever  can  that  be  for,  uncle  ?" 

The  gate-keeper,  standing  at  the  door,  over 
heard  the  question,  and  turned  round  for  a  minute 
to  explain  the  use  of  the  article.  "  That,  my  lad," 
said  the  man,  as  he  kept  his  eyes  still  fixed  on 
the  door  while  he  spoke,  and  broke  oif  every  now 
and  then  to  answer  the  gate,  "  is  to  prevent  any 
of  the  prisoners  injuring  the  officers  in  their  cells. 
'Casionally,  you  see,  the  fellors  gets  furious  when 
they're  locked  up  alone  in  the  'fractory  ward,  and 
swears  they'll  stick  us  with  their  knives,  or  beat 
our  skulls  in  with  their  hammock-rings  if  we  only 
chance  to  go  in  to  them ;  and  we  can  see  by  their 
looks  as  they  means  it,  too.  Well,  in  such  cases, 
one  of  us  puts  on  that  great  big  shield  you  see 
there,"  and  the  officer  pointed  to  a  leathern  disk 
larger  in  diameter  than  the  largest  target.  "It's 
as  big  round  as  a  man's  high,  and  made  of  basket- 
work,  and  well  padded,  and  covered  with  buffalo 
hide.  So,  when  the  officer  sees  his  opportunity, 
he  dashes  into  the  cell  with  that  there  thrust  out 


381 


in  front  of  him,  and  covering  his  whole  body. 
This  takes  the  chap  aback  a  bit,  and  before  he  can 
recover  hisself  another  officer  darts  in,  holding 
out  that  long  pole  there,  with  the  padded  crutch 
at  the  end  of  it,  and  with  that  he  makes  a  drive 
at  the  fellor,  and  pins  him  round  the  body  close 
again  the  wall;  and  then  another  officer,  armed 
with  that  there  smaller  crutch,  rushes  on  directly 
after  the  other,  and  pinions  the  chap's  legs  in  the 
same  manner.  So,  when  they've  got  the  fellor 
fast  and  tight,  then  all  the  other  officers  in  the 
prison  pours  in,  and  overpowers  him  altogether. 
That  is  what  that  pretty-looking  little  happyra- 
tus  is  for,  my  young  gentleman." 

Young  Benjamin,  who  had  been  staring  with 
the  same  sapient,  round-eyed  kind  of  expression 
as  an  owl  in  a  bird-cage  all  the  time  the  man  had 
been  speaking,  merely  said  "  Oh !"  when  the  sto 
ry  was  ended,  and  wondered  whether,  if  poor  half 
witted  "  Monday"  ever  got  in  there,  he'd  be  man 
acled,  and  fettered,  and  pitch-forked  like  the  rest. 

By  this  time  a  warder  returned,  and  putting 
his  hand  to  his  cap,  saluted  the  elder  Benjamin  in 
military  fashion  as  he  said,  partly  to  the  gate 
keeper  and  partly  to  the  gentleman  himself,  "  Pass 
two — 'spect  prison  —  gov'nor's  orders."  Then 
beckoning  the  gate-keeper  to  one  side,  the  officer 
seemed  to  take  the  ramrod  out  of  his  back  while 
he  said  in  a  whisper,  "  You'll  find  a  half  gallon 
of  rum,  Bennet"  (and  he  winked  as  rapidly  as  a 
bird  at  the  man),  "at  the  bottom  of  the  bread 
when  it  comes  in  this  evening ;  just  pass  it  for 
me,  will  you,  and  you  shall  have  your  regulars. 
I'll  square  it  with  you  by-and-by."  Then  sudden 
ly  turning  round  and  assuming  the  military  air 
again,  he  cried,  "  Now,  sir,  pliz  foller  me — 'spect 
prison." 

The  man,  who  wore  many  heavy  keys  chained 


382  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

round  his  waist,  was  about  to  apply  one  of  them 
to  a  huge  lock  (as  big  as  a  family  Bible),  and  to 
open  a  gate  in  a  thick  trellis-work  of  iron  railings 
that  was  as  ponderous  as  a  portcullis,  when  Uncle 
Ben  suggested  that  he  wished  more  particularly 
to  see  the  boys'  part  of  the  prison,  saying  that 
the  master  of  the  poor-house  had  told  him  that 
their  new  Quaker  governor  was  beginning  to  try 
and  keep  the  juvenile  from  the  old  oifenders. 

"  Yezzir — all  stuff,  though — never  carry  it  out 
— new-fangled  nonsense ;  been  here  twenty  year, 
I  have — been  together  all  my  time,  they  have — 
no  harm  came  of  it,  as  I  can  see.  Nothing  like 
dis'pline — stric'  dis'pline;  yezzir — that's  all  we 
want  here,  sir — dis'pline — stric'  dis'pline." 

Then  putting  his  two  hands  to  the  heavy  gate 
he  had  been  standing  at  while  he  jerked  out  the 
above  speech,  he  made  it  moan  again  as  he  turned 
it  slowly  on  its  hinges. 

Ben  was  now  in  a  kind  of  bird-cage  of  iron 
bars ;  and  another  gate,  with  another  huge  family- 
biblical  lock,  had  to  be  undone  before  he  entered 
the  paved  yard  of  the  prison  itself. 

Once  within  the  precincts,  the  place  was  like  a 
fortress,  with  its  heavy  blocks  of  buildings  and 
embrasure-like  windows,  all  radiating  from  the 
"argus,"  or  governor's  house  in  the  centre,  like 
the  threads  of  a  gigantic  spider's  web  done  in 
brick-work.  The  doors  to  the  different  prison 
wings  were  as  massive  as  those  of  an  iron  safe, 
while  each  of  the  different  "airing-yards"  was 
railed  off  like  the  entrance  to  some  gloomy  and 
desolate  inn  of  court. 

The  warder  and  the  visitors  passed  on  to  the 
oakum-room,  which  had  been  built  across  the  end 
of  the  large  triangular  space  between  the  last  two 
prison  wings,  or  rather  the  last  two  bricken  spokes 
of  the  architectural  wheel.  This  room  consisted 


383 


of  a  long  barn-like  shed,  fitted  with  seats,  which 
ranged  from  one  end  of  the  lengthy  out-house  to 
the  other,  and  which  stood  on  a  slightly-inclined 
plane,  so  that  altogether  it  had  somewhat  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  rude  stand  run  up  for  the  nonce  at 
a  race-course.  The  air  here  was  charged  with  the 
true  prison  perfume,  and  reeked  as  strongly  of  the 
tarry  and  hempen  odor  of  rope-yarn  mixed  with 
a  whiff  of  stale  cocoa,  gruel,  and  pea-soup,  as  a 
circus  smells  of  oranges  and  saw-dust. 

Here  were  some  hundred  of  mere  children, 
ranged  along  the  forms,  each  with  a  hook  tied 
just  above  the  knee,  and  "fiddling  away,"  as  the 
prison  phrase  ran,  at  a  small  thread  of  the  un 
raveled  junk;  that  is  to  say,  sawing  it  backward 
and  forward  across  the  hook,  and  then  rolling  the 
loosened  strand  to  and  fro  along  their  thigh,  where 
the  trowsers  seemed  to  be  coated  with  glue,  from 
the  tar  with  which  they  had  become  covered. 
The  whole  atmosphere  within  the  room  was  hazy 
as  that  of  the  interior  of  a  mill  with  the  dust  of 
the  abraded  tow  flying  in  the  air.  A  death-like, 
catacomb-like  silence  reigned  throughout  the 
place,  and  round  the  shed  sat  a  small  detachment 
of  prison  officials,  perched  at  intervals  on  high, 
lawyer's-clerk-like  stools,  watching  the  lads  at 
work,  while  here  and  there  upon  the  walls  hung 
black-boards  covered  with  Scripture  texts,  such  as, 

"I  WILL  ARISE  AND  GO  TO  MY  FATHER,  AND 
SAY  UNTO  HIM,  FATHER,  I  HAVE  SINNED  AGAINST 

HEAVEN  AND  BEFORE  THEE." 

And  "  SET  A  WATCH,  O   LORD,  BEFORE   MY 

MOUTH,  AND  KEEP  THE  DOOR  OF  MY  LIPS,"  etc., 

etc. 

As  the  trio  entered  the  shed,  the  whole  of  the 
boys  rose  in  a  body  to  salute  them,  and  each  put 
his  hand  across  his  forehead  like  a  person  shading 
his  eyes  as  he  looks  up  on  a  bright  sunny  day. 


384  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

They  then  sat  down  immediately  afterward, 
the  one  simultaneous  movement  sounding  like 
the  breaking  of  a  huge  wave  upon  the  sea 
shore. 

"  Hard  labor  pris'nus,  sir,  most  of  'em  !"  said 
the  chief  warder,  still  jerking  out  the  information 
in  the  same  snappy  tone  as  if  he  were  giving  the 
word  of  command.  "  B'ys  all  in  gray,  Sum'ry 
b'ys,"*  went  on  the  communicant,  with  his  chin 
in  the  air  as  before.  "  B'ys  in  gray,  with  yeller 
collus  to  weskets,  Seshuns  b'ys  ;f  and  b'ys  in  blue 
here  on  lower  fo'm,  Mis'meenuns."J 

Little  Ben  hardly  heard  the  words,  and  the  un 
cle  cared  not  to  inquire  into  the  precise  niceties 
of  the  legal  distinctions. 

The  boy  was  rapt — entranced — stunned,  as  it 
were,  with  the  utter  novelty  of  the  place  and 
scene  before  him.  He  had  heard  talk  of  robbers, 
and  had  certainly  read  of  Robin  Hood  and  his 
band  of  freebooters  in  Sherwood  forest,  but  he 
had  never  seen  more  than  the  back  of  a  thief  in 
all  his  life  before,  and  that  was  when  an  alarm  had 
been  raised  in  their  street  one  night,  and  he  had 
caught  sight,  on  throwing  open  his  window,  of  a 
troop  of  watchmen  hurrying  along  in  chase  of  a 
nimble  pair  of  legs  in  the  distance.  Still,  to  the 
lad,  there  had  always  been  a  world  of  vague  ter 
ror  in  the  mere  idea  of  such  characters.  He  had 
formed  an  imaginative  picture  of  wild,  lawless 
ruffianism,  and  cut-throat,  ogrish  propensities  and 
appearance  in  connection  with  the  predatory  class 

*  Summary  boys,  i.  e.,  those  who  had  been  summarily 
committed  by  magistrates  without  being  sent  to  the  sessions 
for  trial. 

f  Anglice,  Sessions  boys,  or  those  who  had  been  tried  and 
convicted  of  larceny  or  felony  at  the  sessions. 

t  Properly  called  "Misdemeanants,"  or  boys  that  were 
imprisoned  for  some  misdemeanor ;  that  is  to  say,  that  had 
not  committed  any  theft  or  serious  offense. 


in  general,  and  this  had  often,  when  the  window- 
sashes  of  his  bed-chamber  rattled  in  their  frames, 
caused  him  to  lie  and  tremble  in  his  bed  by  the 
hour;  so  that  now, the  utter  difference  between 
the  real  and  the  ideal  positively  confounded  him. 
Could  it  be  that  the  little  children  before  him  were 
really  thieves — little  mannikin  things  like  them — 
that  were  not  only  the  very  opposite  in  appearance 
to  ogres,  cut-throats,  and  ruffians,  but  mere  babies 
most  of  them,  and  who  seemed  to  require  a  nurse 
rather  than  a  jailer  to  watch  over  them  ?  Was 
it  for  the  safe  custody  of  such  mere  Tom  Thumb 
creatures  as  these  that  the  half-military  prison  of 
ficials  went  about,  with  those  heavy  bunches  of 
keys  chained  round  their  waist  ?  Was  it  for  these 
wretched  toddlekins,  who  seemed  to  need  a  go- 
cart  instead  of  a  prison  van  to  bring  them  to  the 
jail,  that  the  cutlasses  were  chained  up  over  the 
mantel -piece  in  the  gate -room,  and  those  tiny, 
baby-handcuffs  kept,  ever  ready,  hanging  against 
the  walls  ?  Did  those  little  hands,  that  had  hard 
ly  outgrown  their  dimples  for  knuckles,  need  a 
fortress  to  resist  them  ?  did  they  want  iron  doors 
as  heavy  as  sepulchre-stones,  and  iron  bars  and 
bolts  as  thick  as  musket-barrels,  and  walls  as 
high  as  cliffs,  to  keep  them  from  breaking  prison  ? 
What  could  it  all  mean  ?  Surely,  he  thought,  as 
he  turned  it  over  and  over,  it  must  be  the  mad 
house  that  his  uncle  had  brought  him  to,  so  as  to 
have  a  bit  of  fun  with  him,  and  see  whether  he'd 
know  the  sane  from  the  insane.  Yet  no !  What 
could  those  poor  boys  be  there  for,  if  the  men  in 
authority  over  them  were  really  so  many  lunatics? 
Could  they  be  the  poor  idiot  lads  that  the  grown 
maniacs  were  allowed  to  play  the  fool  with  ?  It 
really  seemed  to  be  so.  But  no,  no ;  the  little 
fellows  hadn't  the  idiot  look  with  them,  like  the 
wretched  silly  boys  he  had  seen  in  the  poor-house. 
BB 


S86  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   PRANKLIN. 

Besides,  the  warder  himself  had  called  it  a  prison. 
What  could  it  all  mean  ? 

Then  poor  bewildered  little  Ben  began,  as  the 
whirl  and  confusion  in  his  brain,  and  the  singing 
of  the  blood  in  his  ears  subsided  a  little,  to  glance 
his  eye  fitfully  along  the  forms,  and  notice  the 
features  of  such  lads  as  had  resumed  their  work, 
after  having  had  their  fill  of  staring  at  himself. 
He  could  see  no  difference  in  their  looks  from  his 
old  playmates  at  Mr.  Brownwell's  school.  Some 
one  or  two  were  positively  pretty  lads — good-look 
ing  in  the  literal  sense  of  the  term — and  seemed, 
despite  the  ugly  gray  prison  dress,  to  have  faces 
beaming  with  frankness  and  innocence.  Others 
certainly  looked  dogged  and  sullen,  and  many  had 
a  sharp,  knowing,  and  half-sly  expression,  with  a 
curl  at  the  corners  of  their  mouth  and  a  twinkle 
in  their  eye,  as  if  they  were  ready  to  burst  into 
laughter  on  the  least  occasion  ;  but  not  one  could 
he  see  that  had  that  sinister  averted  scowl,  and 
those  heavy,  bull-dog-like  features  that  were  made 
to  characterize  the  thieves  in  the  pictures  of  some 
of  his  schoolfellows'  books.  Were  these,  then, 
really  thieves  before  him — little  baby  felons  and 
convicts  in  pinafores?  Yet  still  he  fancied  he 
must  have  misunderstood  his  uncle  somehow. 
Why,  there  was  one  poor  child  there  in  gray, 
with  a  yellow  collar  to  his  waistcoat,  that  wasn't 
bigger  than  little  Teddy  Holmes,  his  sister  Ruth's 
eldest  boy ;  and  Teddy  was  only  just  turned  five, 
he  knew.  They  could  never  have  tried  kirn,  and 
made  a  convict  of  such  a  mere  babe  as  he  was ; 
for,  if  they  made  felons  of  little  things  of  five  years 
old,  why  not  at  four,  at  three — or,  indeed,  why 
should  the  baby  in  long  clothes  go  free,  if  it  came 
to  that  ?  How  could  such  a  mere  infant  as  that 
lad  possibly  know  right  from  wrong,  any  more 
than  Tommy,  their  cat  at  home  ? — and  he  really 
was  a  dreadful  thief,  if  you  liked, 


387 


But  poor  young  Ben's  speculations  and  bewil 
derment  were  soon  put  an  end  to  by  his  uncle 
asking  the  chief  warder  what  was  the  character 
of  the  offense  for  which  the  misdemeanants— the 
boys  in  blue  on  the  lower  form — had  been  impris 
oned. 

"  Stan'  up,  mis'meenuns,"  cried  the  chief  ward 
er,  as  if  he  had  been  drilling  a  body  of  privates. 

The  boys  rose  in  a  row  as  though  they  had  been 
all  hoisted  by  their  necks  at  one  pull ;  and  there 
they  stood,  with  their  hands  straight  down  by 
their  sides,  and  their  chins  cocked  in  the  air,  the 
very  monkey  mimicry  of  the  antics  of  the  chief 
warder  himself. 

"  What  a'  yer  in  for,  b'y  ?"  squirted  out  the 
officer,  addressing  the  first  lad  in  the  rank. 

"  Heaving  a  highster-shell  through  a  street- 
lamp,  please,  sir,"  was  the  urchin's  reply. 

Ben  stared  at  his  uncle  as  the  answer  fell  upon 
his  ear. 

"  In  thri  times  afore,"  added  the  officer,  by  way 
of  comment.  "  The  b'y  did  it  to  get  a  month's 
food  an'  shelter,  dussay." 

"  An'  you  ?"  went  on  the  warder,  passing  to  the 
next. 

"  Please,  sir,  a  woman  said  I  hit  her  babby," 
whined  out  this  one. 

"  An'  you  ?"  the  warder  continued,  running 
down  the  rank. 

"  Heaving  clay  about,  please,  sir,"  responded 
the  next. 

"  In  fo'teen  times  afore,"  the  officer  threw  in, 
as  a  commentary  on  the  character  of  this  lad. 

"  It's  been  mostly  for  cadging  (begging), please, 
sir,"  expostulated  the  brat,  "  and  only  two  times 
for  prigging,  please,  sir." 

"  Sil'ns,  b'y.  Nex'  b'y  go  on,"  shouted  the  man 
in  authority. 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

"  Heaving  stones,"  said  No.  4. 

"  Threatening  to  stab  another  boy,  please,  sir," 
cried  the  lad  after  No.  4,  as  the  warder  pointed 
to  him. 

"  Prigging  a  bell  in  a  gar  ding,  please,  sir,"  ex 
claimed  No.  6. 

"  Heaving  stones,  sir,"  went  on  No.  7. 

"  Heaving  stones  too,"  No.  8  said. 

'In  fur  times  afore,"  again  interposed  the 
warder. 

"  Heaving  stones,"  ejaculated  No.  9. 

"The  same,"  answered  No.  10. 

And  there  the  file  ended. 

"  Heaving  stones !  Heaving  stones !  Heaving 
stones !"  The  words  echoed  and  echoed  again  in 
young  Ben's  brain ;  and  then,  in  the  natural  sym 
pathy  and  justice  of  his  little  heart,  he  cried  aloud, 
"  Oh,  uncle !  do  they  put  these  poor  little  fellows 
among  thieves,  and  lock  them  up  in  this  horrid 
place,  and  make  them  wear  that  ugly  prison-dress, 
for  such  mere  child's  play  as  that?  Isn't  it  a 
shame  !  Why,  there  wasn't  a  boy  at  our  school 
that  shouldn't  have  been  here,  then,  if  all  were 
punished  alike.  Oh,  isn't  it  a  shame  —  a  wicked 
shame !"  he  repeated.  "  Why,  I  remember  my 
self,"  and  the  lad  was  pouring  forth  a  torrent  of 
generous  boyish  indignation,  and  would  have  run 
on  for  heaven  knows  how  long,  hadn't  the  chief 
warder  cut  him  short  with  one  of  his  peculiar  ex 
plosive  commands  in  the  shape  of 

"  Sil'ns,  sir,  pliz.  Can't  allow  such  remuks  as 
them  in  pressuns  of  pris'nus." 

Young  Ben  was  tongue-tied  in  an  instant,  and 
he  drew  up  close  to  his  uncle's  side,  for  he  hardly 
knew  whether,  if  "  heaving  clay  about"  was  pun 
ishable  with  imprisonment,  he  too  mightn't  have 
rendered  himself  liable  to  be  locked  up  by  what 
he  had  said. 


"LOWER  AND  LOWER  STILL."  ssa 

"  Now,"  exclaimed  Uncle  Ben  to  the  warder, 
"  let's  hear  the  offenses  of  some  of  the  others." 

"  Stan'  up,  you  b'y,  ther',"  shouted  the  officer, 
addressing  the  first  of  the  lads  in  gray  seated  on 
the  next  form. 

The  boy  shot  up  from  his  seat  in  an  instant  as 
sharply  and  suddenly  as  a  Jack  in  the  box  on  the 
removal  of  the  lid,  and  stood  as  stiff  as  a  dummy 
in  the  window  of  a  "  youth's  fashionable  clothing 
mart." 

"  H'ould  a'  yer,  b'y  ?"  said  the  jailer,  question 
ing  the  lad  first  as  to  his  age. 

"  Thirteen  year,  please,  sir,"  was  the  answer. 

"  What  a'  yer  in  for?"  'went  on  the  laconic  turn 
key. 

"Coat  and  umbereller, please,  sir,"  the  little  fel 
low  replied,  with  a  faint  smile ;  and  then  added, 
as  if  he  knew  what  would  be  the  next  query, 
"This  makes  seven  times  here,  please,  sir,  and 
three  times  at  the  Old  Hoss,  please,  sir." 

The  "  Old  Horse"  was  the  cant  name  for  the 
next  county  jail. 

"Hollong  ha'  yer  got  this  time?"  demanded 
the  warder,  so  as  to  make  him  state  the  term  of 
his  imprisonment. 

"Three  calendar,  please,  sir"  (Anglice,  three 
calendar  months) .  "  This  makes  four  times,  please, 
sir,  as  I've  had  to  do  three  calendar,"  said  the  lad ; 
"  and  I've  had  two  two-monthses  as  well — one  of 
the  two-monthses  here,  and  one  at  the  Old  Hoss, 
please,  sir ;  and  I've  done  one  six  weeks  and  two 
two-dayses  besides.  It's  mostly  been  for  prig 
ging,  please,  sir,"  added  the  young  urchin. 

Little  Ben  stared  with  amazement  at  his  uncle 
as  he  heard  the  confes-sion,  uttered  as  it  was  with 
out  the  faintest  tinge  of  shame  to  color  the  cheeks, 
ay,  and  (what  struck  him  as  still  more  strange) 
without  the  least  quake  of  fear,  even  though  the 
warder  stood  at  the  boy's  elbow. 


390  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

"  Woddid  yer  tek  ?"  shot  out  the  official,  now 
drawing  the  lad  out  as  to  the  kind  of  articles  he 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  stealing. 

"  I  took  a  watch  and  chain  wunst,  please,  sir, 
and  I  did  a  pair  of  goold  bracelets  another  time," 
was  the  unabashed  and  half-exulting  reply.  "  I 
frisked  a  till  twice'd ;  and  this  time  it's  for  the  coat 
and  umbereller,  as  I  told  you  on  afore.  One  of 
the  two-dayses  I  had  was  for  a  bottle  of  pickles, 
but  that  was  three  or  four  year  ago." 

"Why,  I  beginned  thieving  about  four  year 
ago,"  he  went  on,  in.  answer  to  another  question 
from  the  officer,  who  seemed  as  pleased  as  the  boy 
himself  with  the  examination.  "I  went  out  with 
a  butcher-boy.  He's  got  seven  year  on  it  now, 
please,  sir.  He  sent  me  into  the  shop  with  a  bit 
of  a  hold  seal  to  sell,  when  I  prigged  the  stoop" 
(stole  the  watch) ;  "  and  I  tried  on  the  same 
dodge  when  I  did  the  pair  of  goold  bracelets." 

"Have  you  got  any  father,  my  lad?"  asked 
Uncle  Ben,  with  a  hitch  in  his  breath. 

"  Yes,  please,  sir,"  the  answer  ran.  "  Mother 
mends  glass  and  chayney,  please,  sir,"  and  father's 
in  the  consumptive  hospital  down  in  the  country. 
I  don't  mean  to  go  out  prigging  no  more,  please, 
sir,"  added  the  youngster,  as  he  suddenly  lowered 
his  eyelids  with  affected  penitence,  "not  if  I  can 
get  any  other  work  that'll  keep  me,  I  won't."* 

"Won'  do,  b'y!"  cried  the  inexorable  warder; 
"  yer  pitched  that  ther'  tale  to  the  lady  as  went 
over  the  pris'n  las'  time  we  had  yer  here ;  an' 
then  yer  got  three  calen'ar  the  second  day  after 
yer  went  out." 

*  There  is  no  fiction  in  the  above  answers  of  the  boys. 
These,  and  those  which  follow,  are  simply  the  replies  of  the 
young  thieves  at  the  boys'  prison  in  Westminster,  which  were 
taken  down  verbatim  by  the  author  at  the  time  of  his  visit 
to  Tothill  Fields'  House  of  Correction  in  the  year  1856. 


"LOWER  AND  LOWER  STILL."  391 

Little  Ben  was  heart-stricken  with  what  he 
heard.  It  was  all  so  new  to  him— so  startling — 
so  shameless — so  frank,  and  yet  so  subtle — so 
heartless,  and  yet  so  knowing ;  in  a  word,  it  was 
so  utterly  unlike  all  his  preconceptions  concern 
ing  robbers  and  thieves,  that,  now  that  he  was 
really  convinced  he  was  standing  in  the  presence 
of  a  host  of  boy-felons,  he  felt  sick  and  half  scared 
with  the  terrible  consciousness  of  the  fact.  ^ 

There  was  such  a  sense  of  massiveness  in  the 
large  array  of  crime  before  him,  that,  now  the  boy 
had  learned  that  the  greater  part  of  the  mere 
children  were  there  for  thefts  as  brazen-faced  as 
those  which  the  urchin  of  thirteen  had  just  con 
fessed  to,  he  was  fairly  appalled  with  the  vastness 
of  the  vice.     Few,  indeed,  know  what  it  is  to  see 
crime  in  the  mass — wickedness  in  the  lump,  as  it 
were ;  to  look  upon  some  hundred  heads,  and  feel 
as  if  they  were  fused  into  one  monster  brain,  in 
stinct  with  a  hundred  devil-power,  and  quickened 
Avith  a  hundred  fold  more  than  ordinary  human 
cunning  and  cheatery.     Most  people  know  crime 
only  as  an  exceptional  thing ;  they  hear,  read  of, 
or  become  personally  acquainted  with  merely  in- 
dimdual  cases,  and  never  see  it  in  such  huge  con 
glomerates — such  immense  corporate  bodies  of 
devilry  as  give  the  mind  a  foretaste  of  the  con 
crete  wickedness  of  Pandemonium  itself.     It  is  no 
longer  one  wayward  human  heart  we  contemplate, 
but  hundreds  of  such  hearts,  every  one  of  them 
pulsing  like  a  hundred  clocks  in  terrible  unison, 
throbbing  with  one  universal  rancor  and  hatred 
of  all  that  is  good  and  grand,  and  never  a  gener 
ous  passion  nor  a  noble  sentiment,  and  hardly  a 
kindly  feeling  stirring  within  them.     Crime  seen 
under  such  circumstances  seems  to  be  as  much  a 
part  of  the  "  ordinations  of  nature"  as  even  grav 
itation  itself,  and  a  sense  of  destiny  and  fatalism 
almost  overpowers  the  soul. 


392  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FKANKLIN. 

As  for  poor  little  Ben,  there  was  such  a  kind 
of  rattlesnake  fascination  in  the  terror  that  was 
on  him,  that  he  couldn't,  for  the  life  of  him,  take 
his  eyes  off  the  lad  who  had  just  sat  down. 

The  boy  was  a  sharp-featured  and  sly-looking 
youngster  of  about  Ben's  own  height,  and  had  a 
pucker  and  twitter  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
which  showed,  despite  his  downcast  look,  that, 
though  pretended  penitence  was  on  his  eyelids, 
incipient  laughter  was  on  his  lips.  Indeed,  he 
needed  but  to  have  the  prison  garb  exchanged 
for  the  man's  coat,  with  the  tails  dragging  on  the 
ground,  and  the  trowsers  tied  up  over  the  shoul 
ders  with  string  instead  of  braces,  and  the  bare 
muddy  feet  too,  to  mark  him  as  one  of  the  con 
firmed  young  street-vagabonds  that  are  to  be 
found  in  every  city.  Were  these  the  poor  little 
human  waifs  and  strays  of  the  town,  that  Ben 
had  so  often  seen  collected  at  the  entrances  to 
the  courts  and  alleys  about  the  neighborhood  ?  he 
asked  himself,  without  shaping  the  thoughts  into 
words.  Were  these  the  slips  and  cuttings  that, 
after  being  duly  inoculated  and  planted,  and  trans 
planted  into  the  hot-bed  prison  soils,  were  des 
tined  to  bear  the  felon  fruit  ?  As  the  light  burst 
through  the  parting  clouds  of  his  brain,  his  mind's 
eye  grew  half  dazed  with  the  flash. 

He  looked  again  and  again  at  the  lad,  and  tried 
if  he  could  read  innate  wickedness  branded  like 
the  mark  of  Cain  upon  his  brow.  But  no !  The 
boy-thief,  now  that  he  came  to  gaze  at  him  well, 
wTas  the  very  image  of  Bob  Cooper,  who  was  the 
kindest  and  best-natured  boy  of  them  all  at  Mr. 
Brownwell's  school.  Then  the  recollection  that 
the  father  of  the  young  thief  was  in  the  hospital, 
and  the  mother  out  all  day  mending  "  chayney 
and  glass,"  came  stealing  over  his  heart,  as  soft 
and  genial  as  the  warm  south  wind  on  a  winter's 


"LOWER  AND  LOWEK  STILL."  393 

day ;  and  as  his  nature  melted,  young  Ben  thought, 
what  would  that  boy-thief  have  been  had  he  been 
blessed  with  friends  and  counselors  like  himself? 
and  what  might  he  himself  have  become  had  the 
same  iron  circumstances  cradled  his  childhood? 
The  thought  once  in  the  little  fellow's  brain,  and  he 
looked  upon  the  crowd  of  boy-thieves  before  him 
through  the  liquid  lens  of  pity  flooding  his  eyes. 

"  Stan'  up,  nex'  b'y !"  again  snapped  out  the 
prison  official. 

This  boy  knew  by  the  questions  put  to  the  pre 
vious  one  the  kind  of  information  he  had  to  give ; 
so,  directly  he  was  on  his  feet,  he  put  his  hands 
straight  down  by  his  side,  and  raising  his  chin, 
and  looking  directly  before  him,  he  delivered  him 
self  of  the  following  statement,  almost  in  one 
breath,  and  certainly  in  one  sentence : 

Sixteen  year  old  please  sir  and  in  for  a  stealing 
a  coat  I've  been  a  prigging  about  four  year  I 
done  one  calendar  here  for  a  pair  of  boots  and 
four  calendar  at  the  Old  Hoss  for  prigging  a  tray 
of  silver  pencil-cases  the  way  as  I  prigged  that 
there  was  this  here  I  took  a  hold  aypenny  ring  and 
broke  it  up  and  went  into  a  shop  to  ax  whether  it 
were  goold  or  not  and  while  the  gennelman  was 
a  looking  at  it  I  slips  the  tray  of  pencil-cases  un 
der  my  coat  then  I  got  took  for  two  bundles  of 
cigars  and  did  another  month  here  after  that  I 
was  took  for  some  meresome  pipes  and  had  an 
other  month  on  it  here  I  was  took  for  a  coat  be 
sides  and  done  my  three  calendar  at  the  Old 
Hoss  again  for  that  father's  a  hingineer  and  I 
ain't  got  no  mother  please  sir  and  that's  all." 

"  Wait,  boy !"  cried  Uncle  Ben,  as  he  saw  the 
lad  about  to  resume  his  seat ;  "  what  do  you  mean 
to  do  when  you  leave  here  ?" 

"  Do  !"  echoed  the  young  thief,  as  if  he  was 
astonished  at  such  a  question  being  put  to  him. 


394  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

"  Yes,  lad,"  repeated  the  elder  Benjamin ;  "  what 
do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"  Why,  when  I  gets  out  here  I  shall  go  prigging 
again,  in  coorse,"  was  the  candid  and  fearless  re 
ply  of  the  lad,  as  he  looked  the  warder  full  in  the 
face. 

"  But  why,"  inquired  the  old  man,  "why  will 
you  thieve  rather  than  work,  lad  ?" 

"  Why,  'cos  I  don't  know  no  other  way  of  get 
ting  a  living  honestly,"  he  answered,  with  an  ill- 
used  air. 

The  odd  blunder  set  every  one  in  the  prison 
laughing,  officers  and  all,  except  the  head  turnkey 
himself,  and  he  merely  shouted  out, 

"  Sil'ns,  b'ys !  we  can't  ha'  no  laughing  here !" 
and  when  the  place  was  quiet,  the  warder  added 
as  before,  "  Stan'  up,  nex'  b'y." 

"  Been  fourteen  times  in  prison,"  began  the  lad 
of  his  own  accord,  as  he  rose  from  his  seat.  "  I've 
had  three  calendar  in  this  here  prison  four  times, 
and  one  fourteen-days,  and  I  don't  know  how 
many  two-monthses  and  one-monthses  besides." 

Uncle  Benjamin  could  no  longer  bear  to  hear 
the  boys  recount  their  several  imprisonments 
with  all  the  glory  with  which  an  old  soldier  fights 
his  "  battles  o'er  again,"  so  he  cut  this  lad's  state 
ment  short  by  asking  what  alone  the  old  man 
cared  to  know.  "  And  when  you  leave  this  prison, 
you'll  begin  thieving  again,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  No,  I  ain't  a-going  this  time,"  answered  the 
lad,  in  a  dogged  tone. 

"  Indeed !"  exclaimed  the  old  man. 

"No,"  went  on  the  other;  "I  means  to  hook 
it,  and  go  to  sea." 

It  was  now  time  to  pass  from  the  salient  de 
tails  of  the  foreground  into  the  broad  masses  and 
deeper  tones  of  the  general  view.  So  Uncle  Ben 
began  to  inquire  as  to  ages  rather  than  the  crim- 


"LOWER  AND  LOWER  STILL."  395 

inal  histories  of  the  different  boy-prisoners,  for  he 
knew  that  the  mere  years  of  the  children  impris 
oned  there  would  tell  a  far  sadder  tale  than  they 
themselves  could  recount. 

"  What  is  the  age  of  the  youngest  prisoner  you 
have  here,  officer  ?"  said  he,  addressing  himself  to 
the  head  turnkey. 

"  Fi'  ye'rs,"  exploded  the  official,  with  all  the 
callousness  of  true  routine.  "  Stan'  up,  you  Tom 
Tit  there,"  he  cried,  addressing  the  child  by  the 
nickname  he  had  got  in  the  prison ;  and  imme 
diately  a  little  head  of  short-cropped  hair  popped 
up  at  the  back  of  some  of  the  bigger  boy-thieves 
in  the  front  row.  "Ther',  get  on  the  form,  do, 
and  let's  see  you  a  bit,"  added  the  chief  warder. 
The  mannikin  scrambled  up  on  the  bench  as 
he  was  ordered;  and  little  Ben  shuddered  as  he 
saw  the  mere  babe  stand  there  grinning  in  the 
felon's  suit  of  gray,  that  hung  about  him  like  a 
sick  man's  clothes.  m  m 

"  Secon'  time  o'  being  here,"  went  on  the  disci 
plinarian.  "  In  for  stealing— what's  yer  'fense  ?" 
he  asked,  sharply. 

The  child  grinned  again  as  he  lisped  out, <c  Frith- 
king  a  till,  pleathe." 

"  Woddid  yer  tek  ?"  demanded  the  other. 
"  Five  bob  and  a  tanner,  thir,"  was  the  urchin 
thief's  reply. 

"  Fi'  and  sixpuns,  he  means,"  went  on  the  of 
ficer,  acting  as  a  glossary  to  the  baby's  slang. 
"  Ther',  that'll  do ;  stan'  down.  That's  the  youn 
gest  we've  had  for  some  time.  But  I've  knowed 
a  child  o'  six  sent  to  the  hulks,  I  have,  though  he 
cud  hardly  say  '  not  g'i'tty'  when  he  was  tried." 
Uncle  Ben  wouldn't  trust  himself  to  speak 
upon  such  a  matter  in  such  a  place,  so  he  bit  his 
lips  to  keep  back  the  words  that  were  burning 
for  utterance  at  the  tip  of  his  tongue ;  and  he 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN  PEANKLIN. 

frowned  and  shook  his  head  at  his  little  godson 
as  he  saw  the  boy,  in  his  indignation,  scowling 
and  making  mouths  at  the  warder  before  him. 

"  Want  th'  ages  of  so'  more,  sir,  eh  ?"  the  official 
asked ;  and  as  the  uncle  gave  a  nod  in  reply,  he 
cried, 

"None  here  eight  ye'r  old— nor  nine;  let's  see," 
the  man  said,  talking  to  himself—"  ten's  the  nex' 
youngest  we  got — isn't  it,  Corrie  ?"  he  inquired 
of  one  of  the  other  warders  near  him. 

The  man  addressed  shot  up  from  his  seat  as  he 
replied  "  Yezzir !"  in  a  voice  that  made  the  place 
echo  again  as  with  the  report  of  a  pistol. 

"  Stan'  up  now,  all  ten-ye'r  b'ys,"  shouted  out 
the  head  turnkey,  authoritatively ;  and  the  words 
were  no  sooner  uttered  than  the  lads  rose  from 
different  parts  of  the  room.  "  Ther'  they  a',  sir," 
he  added — "one!  two!  three!  four!  five!  Fi' 
ten-ye'r  b'ys,  and  three  on  them  in  once  afore ; 
others  firs'  'fense  b'ys." 

"  What  are  they  here  for  ?"  Uncle  Ben  sought 
to  learn. 

"  What  a'  yer  in  for  ?"  said  the  man,  pointing 
first  to  the  one  nearest  at  hand,  and  then  to  the 
others,  while  the  answers  of  the  lads  ran  success 
ively  thus  :  "  Pick-pocketing — stealing  brass — 
stealing  seven  razors — taking  tuppence — spinning 
a  top." 

"  What's  that  ?"  asked  Uncle  Ben ;  "  surely  that 
lad  didn't  say  he  was  here  for  spinning  a  top  ?" 

"  Yezzir  ;  reg'lar  'fense,  that !  a  boy  gets  one 
calendar  for  it,  if  he's  took  up  for  'structing  the 
king's  highway,  sir ;"  such  was  the  information 
that  came  like  a  thunder-clap  upon  the  two  Ben 
jamins  ;  and  the  younger  couldn't  help  throwing 
up  his  little  honest  hands,  and  tossing  his  good- 
natured  head,  in  the  depth  of  his  pity  for  the  poor 
little  suffering  things  before  him. 


"LOWER  AND  LOWER  STILL."  SOT 

"  Stan'  up  all'leven-ye'r  b'ys,  now,"  was  the  next 
order;  and  when  it  had  been  obeyed, his  man  pro 
ceeded  to  tell  them  off  with  his  fingers  as  before. 
"  Sev'n  b'ys  here !"  then  he  said, "  One  in  ten  times 
afore ;  another  six  times ;  another  five ;  the  res' 
stranjus  and  firs'  'fense  b'ys  ?" 

Uncle  Ben  nodded ;  and  again  the  warder  cried, 
"  What  a'  yer  in  for,  b'y  ?"  and  went  pointing  to 
the  lads  in  succession,  and  drawing  from  them 
the  following  answers,  one  after  another,  as  he 
did  so: 

"  Taking  a  silver  kettle — stealing  pigeons — spin 
ning  a  top  (the  two  Benjamins  again  looked  at 
each  other) — begging — killing  a  dog — sleeping  in 
the  public  gardens  (another  exchange  of  glances) 
— stealing  a  tray  of  goold  rings." 

"Now  twel'-ye'r  old  b'ys,  sir,  eh?"  again  in 
quired  the  warder ;  and,  as  the  uncle  nodded 
again,  up  shot  ten  more  boys,  and  their  offenses 
were  found,  in  the  same  manner  as  before,  to  have 
been  "  pickpocketing — stealing  a  coat — pawning 
a  jacket — stealing  lead — pickpocketing — stealing 
meat — breaking  a  window — stealing  a  goold  watch 
and  chain — stealing  bread" — ("  You  didn't  want 
it,  b'y,  eh  ?"  "  Oh  no,  sir ;  meant  to  sell  it")  was 
the  parenthetical  inquiry  and  answer) — "  and  steal 
ing  brass." 

And  when  all  the  offenses  had  been  stated,  the 
warder  added,  by  way  of  comment,  "  Pickpockets 
here  all  old  hands.  One  in  six  times  afore.  On'y 
two  stranjus  'mong  the  whole  tweF  b'ys.  See  any 
mo',  sir?"* 

Uncle  Ben  shook  his  head,  and  then  said  "Stay" 
as  he  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  ground.  "  Yes,"  he 
went  on,  "  I  should  like  to  know  how  many  of  the 

*  The  remarks  made  in  the  note  to  page  390  apply  also 
to  the  above  statements.  They  are  matters  of  fact  rather 
than  imagination. 


398  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

boys  here  have  no  fathers  or  mothers  to  take  care 
of  them." 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  the  old  man's 
mouth  before  the  warder  had  made  the  building 
ring  with  the  command  of  "  Stan'  up,  b'ys  with 
no  fathers  and  mothers !"  and  then,  as  he  saw  one 
lad  rising  whose  parents  he  knew  to  be  living, 
he  bawled  out,  "  What  a'  yer  doing  there,  b'y  ? 
You're  not  a  no  father  an'  mother !" 

"  Please,  sir,"  cried  the  lad  in  return,  "  I'm  a  no 
mother,  sir — I  got  a  step,  please,  sir." 

"  Well,  si'  down,  then !  It'll  come  to  yer  turn 
nex' ;"  and  as  the  lad  did  as  he  was  bidden,  the 
warder  went  on  counting  again,  and  ended  by 
saying,  "Ther'  they  a',  sir.  Fi'  no  fathers  an' 
mothers." 

"  Five  utterly  destitute !"  muttered  Uncle  Ben, 
as  he  felt  his  heart  drop  like  a  stone  in  his  bo 
som.  His  little  godson  stared  at  him  with  all  the 
bewilderment  of  utter  horror,  for  he  knew  well 
what  was  passing  in  the  old  man's  mind. 

"  Now,  sir,  I  s'pose  you'll  take  the  b'ys  with  a 
father  or  a  mother  on'y,  eh  ?"  suggested  the  offi 
cial  ;  and,  as  he  saw  the  other  nod  assent  once 
more,  he  bellowed  out  the  order ;  but  such  a  mul 
titude  of  young  ones  rose  at  the  word  of  com 
mand  that  the  warder  knew  half  of  them  had  mis 
taken  the  summons.  So  he  kept  shouting  to  those 
he  was  in  doubt  about,  "Now,  b'y,  a'  yer  a  father 
or  a  mother,  eh?"  whereupon  the  urchin  would 
answer  either  that  he  was  "  a  mother"  or  "  a  fa 
ther,"  as  it  might  happen,  or  else  that  he  was 
"  both  a  father  and  mother  too ;"  in  which  latter 
case  he  would  be  told  to  "  si'  down  and  pay  more 
'tention,  or  he'd  get  in  the  'fract'ry  cell  if  he  didn 
mind." 

"  Ther'  they  a',  sir,  at  last,"  again  cried  the  man  in 
authority.  "  Fifteen  no  father !  TweP  no  mother  I" 


399 


"Please,  sir,  my  father  and  mother's  supper- 
ated,"  shouted  one  of  the  bigger  boys;  "and 
mine's  in  the  poor'us,  please,  sir,"  cried  another ; 
"and  mine's  gone  to  sea;"  "and  my  mother's 
been  in  the  'ospital  for  the  last  year  with  dickey" 
(decay)  "  of  the  thigh-bone ;"  and  so  they  went 
on,  each  shouting  out  after  the  other,  as  if  they 
fancied  some  wrong  had  been  done  to  them  in 
not  being  allowed  to  stand  up  as  orphans  beside 
the  others. 

"  Sil'ns !"  shouted  the  warder ;  "  we  can't  ha' 
this  here !" 

Uncle  Ben  went  up  to  the  official,  and  said 
thoughtfully,  "  I  want  to  find  out  how  many  of 
these  boys  have  got  relatives  in  prison." 

"  Oh,  a'most  all  on  'em,  sir,"  was  the  laconic  re 
ply;  "  regular  jail-birds,  greater  part  on 'em;  but 
I'll  see,  sir,  an'  let  you  know." 

It  cost  the  official  some  trouble  to  make  the 
lads  understand  what  they  really  had  to  answer  ; 
and  the  warder  had  to  put  the  question  to  them 
in  their  own  peculiar  terms,  as  to  whether  their 
family  or  friends  were  "  flats  or  sharps"  (i.  e.,  hon 
est  or  dishonest  people) ;  and  then,  as  some  mis 
understanding  arose,  the  urchins  would  cry  out, 
"  Please,  sir,  my  father  an't  a  sharp,  he's  a  flat, 
sir — an't  never  been  in  pris'n  in  his  life."  Other 
lads,  too,  would  call  out  that  their  mother  was  a 
cadger  (a  beggar),  and  want  to  know  what  the 
gennelman  would  say  that  there  was — a  flat  or  a 
sharp ;  while  others  shouted  out  that  they  had 
got  a  brother  who  was  a  "  gun"  (i.  e.,  thief). 

However,  at  last  the  warder  had  settled  the 
matter ;  and  as  he  told  the  numbers  off,  he  shout 
ed  in  his  usual  official  tone, "  Five  got  fathers  in 
prison  !  One,  father  at  hulks  !  Three,  mothers 
in  prison!  Twenty-six  got  brothers  in  prison! 
Four  got  brothers  at  hulks !  Two,  sisters  in 


400  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

prison !  Three,  cousins  in  prison !  Two,  cousins 
at  hulks !  One,  uncle  in  prison !  One,  uncle  at 
hulks !  One,  aunt  in  prison !  And  now  all's  told, 
sir." 

"  But  one  more  question,"  said  Uncle  Ben,  sor 
rowfully,  "  and  I  have  done.  How  many  of  the 
parents  of  these  boys,  who  have  got  fathers  and 
mothers,  are  habitual  drunkards  ?"* 

The  question  was  clearly  put  and  clearly  under 
stood,  and  the  statements  duly  checked  by  the 
attendant  warders,  who,  from  the  repeated  return 
of  the  greater  part  of  the  lads  to  those  quarters, 
knew  pretty  well  the  family  history  of  most  of 
those  under  their  charge  ;  and  the  answer  proved 
to  be  that  twenty -five  boys,  at  least,  in  every 
hundred,  were  rendered  even  worse  than  father 
less  by  the  brutal  sotting  of  their  parents. 

Poor  Uncle  Ben,  in  his  desire  to  read  his  little 
godson  a  lesson,  had  given  himself  a  severer  lec 
ture  than  he  had  expected.  He  was  touched  to 
the  very  quick  of  his  own  kindly  nature,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  with  his  chin  on  his  bosom  and  his 
eyes  on  the  ground,  as  if  stricken  down  with 
shame.  Then  his  lips  moved  quickly,  though  he 
uttered  not  a  word,  and  he  locked  the  knuckles 
of  one  hand  in  the  palm  of  the  other,  as  he  flung 
his  eyes  for  an  instant  upward.  The  next  minute 
he  was  looking  wildly  about  him,  half  afraid  that 
some  one  might  have  noticed  his  weakness,  and 
the  minute  afterward  he  was  rubbing  away  at  his 
forehead,  as  if  to  rouse  himself  out  of  the  trance 
that  was  on  him. 

The  warders  were  too  busy  in  restoring  order, 
and  the  prisoners  in  too  much  commotion  to  give 
heed  to  the  old  gentleman.  No  one  noticed  him 
indeed,  not  even  his  little  godson ;  for  he,  poor 
lad,  had  turned  his  face  to  the  door,  so  that  none 
*  See  Mr.  Antrobus'  book,  "The  Prison  and  the  School." 


401 


might  see  and  know  what  he  felt.  Boy  as  he 
was,  he  w^as  well  aware  how  those  young  thieves 
would  only  sneer  at  him  for  his  girlish  compas 
sion  ;  accordingly,  he  clenched  his  little  fists,  and 
dug  his  nails  into  his  flesh,  so  that  his  eyes  might 
not  seem  red  when  he  turned  round  again. 

"  A'thing  more,  sir  ?"  asked  the  chief,  when  the 
boys  had  been  got  back  to  their  seats,  and  the 
place  was  quiet  again.  "  A'thing  more,  sir  ?"  he 
repeated,  in  a  louder  and  sharper  tone,  as  he  saw 
the  old  gentleman  stand  still,  looking  on  the 
ground. 

"No  I  no!  no!  no!"  was  the  half-bewildered 
answer.  "  I'm  going — poor  fatherless  things — 
home  now  directly." 

"  Like  to  see  our  women's  prison,  sir  ?"  went 
on  the  warder. 

Uncle  Ben  gave  a  shudder  that  seemed  to  go 
all  through  his  body  as  he  replied  "  No !  no  !  I've 
had  quite  enough  for  one  day,  thank  you." 

"  Wooden  take  yer  quarter-an-hour,  sir,  t'run 
through  it,"  went  on  the  officer,  who  was  as  anx 
ious  as  a  showman  that  the  visitors  should  see 
all  the  sights  of  the  place.  "  See  the  little  things 
in  the  nuss'ry,  then  ?" 

Uncle  Ben  just  caught  the  last  words  of  the 
sentence,  and  he  was  all  alive  again  at  the  bare 
mention  of  such  a  place  in  a  jail.  "  What !"  he 
cried,  in  utter  astonishment,  "  did  you  say  you 
had  a  nursery  here,  officer  ?"  and  he  stared  at  the 
man  as  narrowly  as  if  he  was  watching  the  work 
ings  of  his  countenance,  though  the  gesture  was 
merely  the  instinctive  emotion  of  incredulity  on 
Uncle  Ben's  part. 

The  warder  bore  the  scrutiny  without  as  much 
as  a  wink,  and  replied,  "  Yes ;  nuss'ry  was  my 
words,  sir.  Like  to  see  't,  sir  ?" 

The  old  man,  now  that  he  was  assured  of  the 
Cc 


402  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

fact,  gave  vent  to  no  emotion  whatever,  but  mere 
ly  said  quickly,  "  Of  course  I  should ;"  and  then, 
jerking  down  his  long  waistcoat,  he  set  off  at  a 
quick  pace  out  into  the  yard,  saying,  "Come 
along,  Ben !  come,  boy !  we're  going  to  see  the 
prison  nursery!"  and,  as  he  hurried  along,  even 
an  inexperienced  eye  might  have  told  by  the 
short,  quick  steps  he  took,  and  the  rapid,  twitchy 
jerkings  of  the  arms  as  he  went,  that  his  whole 
frame  was  in  a  state  of  high  irritability. 

Again  the  heavy  gates  had  to  be  unlocked  and 
locked,  and  more  gates  forced  slowly  back,  before 
the  women's  part  of  the  prison  was  reached. 

There  the  visitor  and  his  young  friend  were 
handed  over  to  the  care  of  a  matron,  with  a  re 
quest  that  they  might  be  shown  the  nursery  por 
tion  of  the  bolted  and  barred  establishment. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

FELONS     IN    THE     CRADLE. 

ONCE  on  the  female  side  of  the  jail,  Ben  and 
his  uncle  soon  began  to  feel  that  they  were  out 
of  the  close  and  stifling  atmosphere  of  mere  drill 
and  military  discipline  (of  drill  and  military  dis 
cipline,  save  the  mark !  among  a  brood  of  chil 
dren,  who  cried  aloud  for  good  fathership  rather 
than  drill-sergeantship  to  train  and  tend  them) ; 
for  the  matrons  really  spoke,  and  seemed  to  act 
toward  their  "  erring  sisters"  as  if  they  had  some 
sense  of  their  own  frail  tendencies,  and  some  little 
feeling  for  those  poor  human  reeds  who  had  not 
had  the  power  to  stand  up  against  the  wind.* 

*  There  may  be  readers  of  a  sterner  mood,  unacquainted 
with  prison  economy,  who  may  fancy  that  the  transition  from 
the  mere  disciplinarian  male  jailer  to  the  more  humane  fe 
male  one  borders  somewhat  on  the  sentimental  or  Rosa  Ma- 


FELONS    IN   THE    CEADLE.  403 

The  matron  to  whose  charge  or  care  Uncle  Ben 
and  his  little  nephew  were  handed  over  was  a 

tilda  school  of  literature.  It  may  be  so ;  but  the  transition 
is  not  given  as  a  stroke  of  art,  but  as  a  touch  of  nature.  In 
making  the  prison-tour  of  the  metropolis,  and  passing  day 
after  day  with  the  governors  of  the  several  penal  establish 
ments,  as  the  author  did  but  lately,  with  the  view  of  making 
himself  acquainted  with  the  "prison-world,"  no  change  was 
so  marked,  and,  indeed,  none  so  refreshing,  as  the  transition 
from  the  formalities  of  the  male  warders  to  the  amenities  of 
the  female  ones.  The  women's  prison  at  Brixton,  as  well  as 
that  at  Wandsworth,  and,  let  me  add  in  all  justice,  that  at 
Tothill  Fields  too  (though  the  punishments  at  the  latter  place 
are  inordinately  excessive,  being  upward  of  fifty  per  cent,  more 
than  the  average  proportion  of  punishments  throughout  the 
female  prisons  of  all  England  and  Wales),  these  were  cer 
tainly  not  the  heartless  and  senseless  places  that  the  men's 
and  boy's  prisons  seemed  to  be  (always  excepting  the  stupid 
tyranny  of  the  silent  hour  (!)  at  the  Brixton  Institution) ;  and 
they  were  not  so  simply  because  there  was  some  show  of  kind 
ly  consideration  and  feeling  on  the  part  of  the  lady-officers 
in  charge  of  the  prisoners.  Indeed,  to  this  day  the  author 
has  no  happier  memory  than  that  of  going  the  rounds  with 
the  compassionate  little  post- woman  at  the  Brixton  prison, 
and  seeing  what  happiness  she  found  in  delivering  her  little 
packets  of  happiness  to  the  wretched  female  convicts  there, 
or  than  that  of  hearing  the  long  prison  corridors  at  the 
Wandsworth  House  of  Correction  (which  is  really  a  "model 
prison"  as  to  its  general  management)  echo  with  the  kisses 
of  the  matrons  as  they  caressed  and  hugged  one  of  the  pretty 
little  prison  babies,  that  was  being  bandied  from  one  female 
warder  to  the  other.  The  reader  may  account  for  this  as  he 
pleases,  but  the  author  believes  the  simple  explanation  is  to 
be  found  in  the  very  constitution  of  womankind  itself.  Male 
power  always  runs  into  routine,  idle  forms,  and  silly  cere 
monies;  but  women  have  so  little  of  the  powerful,  and  so 
little  of  the  drill-master  about  their  nature,  while  they  have, 
on  the  other  hand,  so  much  of  the  opposite  qualities  of  ten 
derness  and  gentleness,  that  feeling  and  common  sense  with 
them  are  sure  not  to  be  utterly  overlaid  and  crushed  by  mere 
right-about-face  tomfoolery.  All  that  is  wanted  at  our  male 
prisons  is  a  little  less  drill  and  a  little  more  heart — a  mild 
medium  between  your  Martinet  old-soldierism  on  the  one 
hand,  and  your  Maconochie  maudlinry  on  the  other.  What 
the  female  jailers  may  have  been  in  the  olden  time  the  au- 


404  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

lady  of  very  bulky  proportions ;  so  bulky,  indeed, 
that  the  chain  which  she  wore  as  a  girdle  round 
her  waist,  and  to  which  the  heavy  bunch  of  prison- 
keys  was  attached,  sank  into  a  deep  crease  of  fat, 
and  it  was  only  by  the  glitter  of  an  obtruding 
corner  of  a  link  here  and  there  that  one  could 
tell  she  wore  any  such  iron  girdle  around  her 
waist.  Her  face  was  as  round  and  pleasant-look 
ing  in  its  lining,  its  dimpling  and  puffy  cheeks, 
as  a  hot-cross  bun ;  and  whether  the  typical  traits 
lay  in  the  amplitude  of  bust,  or  the  roly-poly  char 
acter  of  the  pudding-bags  of  flesh  about  the  neck, 
or  the  obvious  staylessness  and  wabbliness  of  her 
whole  figure,  it  was  difficult  to  tell ;  but  there 
was  an  unmistakable  look  of  the  "  mother  of  a 
large  family"  stamped  upon  her  whole  appear 
ance.  Indeed,  it  was  by  the  name  'mother' — 
mother,  in  its  bare  simplicity,  without  any  cog- 
nominal  affix — that  she  was  spoken  of  throughout 
the  entire  prison. 

The  gate-keeper  asked  how  much  beer  he  was 
to  take  for  "  mother"  to-day — the  chief  warder, 
when  he  met  the  lady,  held  out  his  finger  and 
thumb,  and  threw  up  his  nose  as  he  exclaimed, 
"  Pinch  asnuff,  mother !"  The  visiting  justices 
shook  their  powdered  wigs  and  smiled  beneficent- 

thor  has  not  been  able  to  discover.  Whether  they  were  as 
brutal  and  as  base  as  the  males  (who  should  have  changed 
places  with  the  prisoners  themselves,  for  most  of  them  had 
been  thieves  in  their  younger  days),  it  is  impossible  to  say ; 
but  the  writer  of  this  book  has  sufficient  faith  in  womanly 
tenderness  to  believe  not .  There  may  have  been,  and  doubt 
less  was,  many  a  gnarled  old  harridan  among  the  female 
turnkeys  of  the  "good  old  times;"  but  as  human  nature  be 
longs  to  no  one  age,  depend  upon  it  that,  even  a  century  and 
a  half  back,  the  majority  of  the  women  jailers  had  the  same 
women's  hearts  as  now  to  temper  the  rigor  of  prison  rule — 
the  same  women's  weakness  and  women's  pity  for  misery  and 
helplessness — ay,  and  let  me  add,  the  same  women's  prison 
babies  too. 


FELONS   IN   THE   CRADLE.  405 

ly  as  they  passed  her  in  the  passages  leading  to 
the  governor's  room,  saying  the  while,  "Well, 
mother,  how  do  we  find  ourselves  to-day,  mother 
— eh  ?"  The  impudent  boy-thieves  would  shout 
out  after  her  in  the  streets  when  they  got  their 
discharge,  and  saw  her  toddling  along  to  or  from 
the  prison  morning  and  evening,  "I  say,  moth- 
airr !  come  an'  give  us  a  kiss,  old  gal ;"  while  the 
woman  who  had  just  left  the  prison  nursery,  and 
stood,  with  her  infant  on  her  arms,  at  the  entrance 
to  some  court  in  the  town,  would  drop  the  good 
prison  mother  a  silent  courtesy  as  she  went  by  and 
chucked  the  liberated  little  babe  under  the  chin. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  this  most  matronly  matron  as 
she  led  Uncle  Ben  and  the  boy  along  the  narrow 
and  dark  passages  of  the  prison,  and  proceeded 
to  answer  the  question  the  elder  Benjamin  had 
just  put  to  her,  "  if  you  askes  my  opinion  as  a 
mother,  sir,"  she  began,  throwing  all  her  wonted 
force  upon  '  mother,'  "  as  I've  been  this  sixteen 
year  come  next  grotter  day,  as  is  the  fourth  of 
August,  as  my  own  Jimmy  was  borned  upon,  and 
he's  as  good  and  upright  and  downstraight  a  boy 
as  ever  could  please  a  poor  dear  mother's  heart, 
though  it  is  his  own  poor  dear  mother  as  says  so 
— if  you  askes  my  opinion  in  that  compacity,  sir, 
why  I  reely  must  say  as  I  can't  see  as  the  women 
in  our  mothers'  ward  here  is  at  all  different,  in  no 
wise,  in  their  motherly  feelings  for  their  poor  dear 
little  ones,  from  them  as  is  outside." 

The  lady  paused  for  a  minute,  and  then  added : 
"That  there  is  what  I  says  to  every  body,  sir — 
they're  mothers,  sir ;"  and  here  the  lady  stopped 
again,  with  the  double  view  of  enforcing  her  fa 
vorite  point  upon  the  gentleman's  attention,  as 
well  as  fetching  a  little  breath  after  the  heavy 
flight  of  stairs  she  had  just  mounted — "they're 
mothers,  sir,"  she  repeated,  "  which  speaks  wol- 


406  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FKANKLIN. 

lums  for  'em,  sir,  I  says ;  for  a  mother  will  be  a 
mother,  you  know,  sir,  all  the  world  over;  least 
wise  if  she  ain't  a  monster  in  human  form,  as  is 
what  we  don't  allow  in  here,  in  nowise,  sir.  I'm 
a  mother  myself,  sir,"  said  she,  proudly,  pausing 
again  and  turning  full  round  to  stare  at  Uncle 
Ben  as  she  said  the  words;  "the  mother  of  nine 
as  fine  strapping  children  as  ever  you  see,  sir,  as 
is  all  straight  and  well  made,  sir,  with  never  so 
much  as  a  club-foot,  nor  a  hare-lip,  no,  nor  not 
even  so  much  as  a  port-wine-stain  neither  among 
one  on  'em  to  blemish  their  dear  bodies,  which  is 
saying  a  great  deal — ain't  it,  now,  sir?  So  in 
coorse  I  knows  what  a  mother's  feelings  is — which 
is  only  common  humane  natur',  sir,  as  I  tells  my 
good  man — he's  one  of  the  city  watchmen  as  walks 
the  docks ;  maybe  he  ain't  onbeknown  to  you, 
sir,"  she  threw  in  parenthetically  as  she  turned 
suddenly  round  once  more,  "  and  hasn't  never 
slept  in  his  bed  by  nights,  like  a  Christian  man, 
for  this  twenty  year  and  more,  I  give  you  my 
word,  sir.  I  tells  him  he  don't  know  what  a  moth 
er's  feelings  is,  as  in  coorse  he  do  not ;  and  them 
as  does  know  what  a  mother's  feelings  is,  and  it's 
only  common  humane  natur',  I  says  again,  why, 
they  can't  but  let  alone  having  some  bowels  of 
passion  for  them  as  is  mothers  in  their  turn,  sir — 
let  their  sity  wation  be  what  it  may,  poor  things. 
So  long  as  they're  mothers  is  all  as  I  cares  about." 
By  this  time  the  trio  had  reached  the  part  of 
the  building  which  was  set  aside  as  the  prison 
nursery.  Uncle  Ben  was  little  inclined  to  be  talk 
ative  himself,  for  what  he  had  already  seen,  and 
what  he  felt  he  was  about  to  see,  had  taken  near 
ly  all  the  words  out  of  him,  and  made  him  moody 
with  the  grave  reflections  engendered  within  him. 
There  was,  however,  little  demand  for  speech  from 
any  other  while  "  mother"  was  present,  for  even 


FELONS    IN    THE    CEADDE.  407 

the  most  pertinacious  would  have  found  it  diffi 
cult  to  have  insinuated  so  much  as  a  parenthesis 
into  the  monologue  on  her  part. 

As  the  matron  dragged  back  the  heavy  prison 
door  of  the  "  mother's  ward,"  it  disclosed  a  clean 
ly-looking  whitewashed  room,  about  the  size  of  an 
ordinary  barn,  with  barn-like  rafters  appearing 
overhead.  A  strong  smell  of  babies  and  babies' 
food  pervaded  the  place,  and  the  entire  shed  re 
sounded  with  the  kissing  and  prattling  of  the  fel 
on  mothers,  and  the  gurgling  and  cooing,  the  cry 
ing  and  laughing  of  the  imprisoned  babes.  On 
the  hobs  of  the  ample  fireplace  at  the  end  of  the 
ward  were  rows  of  saucepans  and  pannikins,  to 
keep  up  a  constant  supply  of  warm  pap,  and  the 
rails  of  the  high  guard-like  fender  were  hung  with 
an  array  of  Liliputian  linen  —  the  convict  baby- 
clothes,  such  as  shirts  hardly  bigger  than  sheets 
of  note-paper,  socks  but  little  larger  than  thumb- 
stalls,  and  colored  blue  and  white  frocks  of  about 
the  same  size  as  the  squares  of  chintz  in  a  patch 
work  counterpane.  The  room  seemed  positively 
crowded  with  cradles  too,  for  they  were  ranged 
at  the  foot  of  the  iron  bedsteads  in  lines,  like  so 
many  tiny  boats  drawn  up  on  a  beach. 

"  Them  there's  our  own  mothers,  sir !"  said  the 
matron,  in  an  exulting  tone,  as  she  stood  within 
the  doorway  previous  to  entering,  and  pointing 
to  the  assembly  of  babes  as  if  she  was  proud  of 
the  exhibition.  "There's  twenty-three  mothers 
altogether  in  now,  with  five-and-twenty  children 
— two  twinses,"  she  whispered  in  the  old  man's 
ear.  "  Poor  things !  I  never  looks  at  'em,  and 
thinks  about  'em,  I  don't,  but  what  I  feels  as  if  I 
were  a-going  to  be  took  with  a  'tack  of  the  spagms. 
You  see,"  she  continued,  talking  in  an  under  tone 
to  Uncle  Ben,  "they're  a  far  betterer  class  of 
prisoners,  the  mothers  is,  than  them  brazen-faced 


408  YOUNG  BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

minxes  on  the  t'other  side  of  the  women's  side,  as 
is  enough  to  crud  all  a  mother's  milk  of  humane 
kindness,  sir,  that  they  is,  I  give  you  my  word. 
Augh !"  she  burst  out,  with  all  a  true  matron's 
indignation,  "  I'd  have  such  humane  warmin  as 
them  there  gals  of  ourn  whipped  at  the  cart's  tail, 
I  would ;  I  can't  abide  sitch  unwomanly  things ; 
and  yet,  do  you  know,  I  often  drops  a  tear  into 
my  beer,  sir,  when  I  sits  and  thinks  of  the  little 
•  bits  of  gals  we  has  among  'em,  and  turns  my  eyes 
innards  to  their  latter  end, 

"  But  these  here  poor  dears,  sir,"  the  corpulent 
lady  resumed,  with  a  sigh  that  made  the  body  of 
her  dress  heave  up  and  down  like  a  carpet  in  a 
draughty  room,  "  is  mothers,  sir,  as  I  said  afore ; 
and  that  there  shows  as  there  ain't  no  cuss  upon 
them,  and  they  ain't  the  shameless  and  'fection- 
less  hussies  the  other  gals  is,  as  I  can't  abide. 
Ah  !  sir,  a  mother's  heart  is  a  great  thing,  sir — a 
fine  thing,  sir,"  the  old  body  went  on,  as  she  grew 
half  solemn  in  her  tone ;  "  it  makes  a  woman  of  a 
woman,  it  do,  sir,  let  alone  however  bad  she  may 
ha'  been  afore ;  for  d'reckly  she  has  a  bit  of  her 
own  flesh  and  blood  in  her  arms  to  cuddle  and 
take  care  on,  and  d'reckly  she  feels  the  little  thing 
a-drawing  its  life  from  out  of  her  own  buzzum, 
and  a-looking  up  and  a-smiling  in  her  face  the 
whiles,  I  tell  you  she  can't  but  wish  (for  I've 
know'd  it,  and  gone  through  it  all  myself)  as  she 
mayn't  never  do  nothink  in  the  world  as  will  hin 
der  her  dear  child  from  always  a-looking  up  to 
her  as  it  do  then." 

Then  drawing  Uncle  Ben  half  aside,  she  pro 
ceeded  with  no  little  earnestness  in  her  manner 
to  say,  "  And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  sir,  as  them 
there  poor  things,  when  they  has  these  here  moth 
ers'  thoughts  come  over  'em — as  is  only  common 
humane  natur',  I  say  agin — when  they  sees  the 


FELONS    IN   THE    CRADLE.  409 

little  hinnocent  kritter  of  their  own  a-kicking 
and  a-cooing  in  their  lap,  and  wishes  in  their 
'arts  as  they  could  make  it  a  hemperor  or  a  par 
son,  as  every  mother  do,  as  is  a  reel  mother  to  her 
babe,  sir — do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  I  askes  yon, 
as  these  here  poor  things,  as  is  made  of  the  same 
flesh  and  blood  as  ourselves  is,  sir,  don't  hate  their- 
selves  and  cuss  then-selves  for  the  shame  and 
hard  lines  they've  put  upon  their  little  one's  life 
in  a-bringing  it  into  the  world  with  a  hand 
cuff,  as  a  body  may  say,  about  its  little  hinnocent 
wrist  ?  Well,  I  can  tell  you  they  does,  sir — not 
as  they  says  as  much  to  me,  but  I  sees  'em,  when 
they  leastwise  thinks  it,  with  the  tears  a-rolling 
down  their  cheeks  like  a  boy's  marbles  does  some 
times  onbeknown  to  hisself  down  the  hile  at 
church-time — <and  that,  too,  as  they  sits  a-dabbing 
their  hands,  quite  unconscionably,  over  the  little 
dear's  mouth,  so  as  to  make  it  babble  again  like 
the  bleating  of  a  little  lamb,  you  know,  or  maybe 
a-tickling  it  with  their  apron-strings  in  the  folds 
of  its  dear  little  fat  neck  as  it  lays  a-sprawling  on 
the  bed.  You'd  think  they  was  a-playing  with 
the  little  darling,  I  dessay,  and  a-taking  part  in 
the  play  too,  as  a  mother  loves  to  do ;  for  I  know 
it?  sir — ./know  there  ain't  nothink  in  all  the  wide 
world  so  beautiful  as  a  baby's  laugh  to  a  mother's 
'art.  But  these  here  poor  things  can't  hardly 
a-bear  to  hear  their  little  hinnocents  laugh ;  for  it 
only  'minds  them,  you  see,  that  the  babe  hasn't  no 
sense  of  the  place  it's  in,  and  it's  like  daggers  in 
their  'arts  consequently ;  'cos  they  fears  that  when 
it  grows  up  to  know  the  start  it  got  in  life,  it'll 
come  to  cuss  'em,  as  they  cusses  theirselves,  for 
the  millstone  they've  been  and  hung  about  their 
poor  little  poppet's  neck.  This  here  is  only  com 
mon  humane  natur',  I  says  agin  and  agin.  Why, 
there  ain't  no  parson  living  as  could  put  the 


410  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

thoughts  into  these  poor  mothers'  buzzums  as 
them  there  little  babes  as  can't  talk  can  do. 
They're  little  hangels,  I  says,  sent  from  heaven  to 
turn  their  'arts,  sir.  I  knows  it,  I  do.  I've  got 
a  mother's  'art  myself,  sir,  and  I  feels  it  often 
a-bleeding  for  'em." 

Uncle  Ben  was  so  little  prepared  for  this  sim 
ple  burst  of  earnest  kindness,  after  the  stolid  cal 
lousness  of  the  male  officers,  that  he  stared  for  a 
minute  in  mute  wonder  at  the  good  old  dame, 
and  then  said,  as  he  saw  his  little  nephew  looking 
up  and  smiling  in  her  fat,  good-natured  face, 
"  Kiss  her — go  and  kiss  her,  Ben,  for  her  mother 
ly  love  of  these  poor  creatures  ;"  and  then,  as  the 
boy  flung  his  arms  about  her  neck,  he  hugged  the 
prison  "  mother,"  and  the  "  mother"  hugged  the 
boy,  as  if  they'd  been  parent  and  child,  while  the 
old  uncle  turned  into  the  corridor  and  paced  rap 
idly  up  and  down  the  flag-stones,  flinging  his 
arms  about  as  if  he  was  preaching  to  the  winds. 

The  paroxysm  past,  he  returned  to  the  dame's 
side,  repeating  her  words,  "Little  angels  sent  from 
heaven  to  turn  their  mother's  hearts."  Then  he 
paused,  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face  as  he  ask 
ed  sharply,  "  And  what  will  they  grow  up  to  be, 
think  you,  mother  ?" 

"  Young  devils,  sir — devils,"  was  the  emphatic 
and  not  particularly  mealy-mouthed  answer  of  the 
woman. 

"  I  guessed  so,"  said  Uncle  Ben  ;  "  I  foresaw  as 
much ;"  then  he  was  silent  for  another  minute,  and 
ultimately  jerked  out,  "  But  why  should  it  be  so, 
mother — why  can't  such  as  you  prevent  it  ?" 

"  Lor'  love  you,  sir,"  "  mother"  replied,  her  face 
growing  as  creasy  as  an  old  kid  glove  with  the 
smiles  that  played  all  over  it,  "  why,  how  you 
talk !  The  world's  agin  it — every  humane  being's 
agin  it — common  humane  natur' "  (her  favorite 


FELONS    IN   THE   CEADLE.  411 

reference)  "  is  agin  it.  Do  you  think,  I  askes  you, 
these  here  poor  little  babes  can  ever  have  the 
same  chance  of  getting  a  honnest  penny  as  that 
there  boy  of  yourn,  or  any  decent  folk's  child,  let 
alone  gentlefolks  ?  It's  one  thing  to  be  borned 
with  a  silver  spoon,  or  even  any  spoon  at  all — no 
matter  whether  it's  a  hold  hiron  or  a  wooding 
one — in  the  mouth,  and  quite  another  pair  of 
shoes  to  come  into  the  world  with  a  handcuff 
ready  locked  about  your  wrist;  for  there  ain't 
hardly  no  gitting  it  off,  I  can  tell  you :  it  grows 
into  the  flesh  like  this  here  wedding-ring  has,  you 
see." 

The  woman  put  out  her  finger  to  show  that  the 
little  gold  hoop  had  become  imbedded  deeply  into 
the  skin. 

"  A  boy  as  has  come  of  a  felon  mother  is  sure 
to  find  it  out  sooner  or  later,"  she  went  on,  "  and 
often  much  sooner  than  need  be ;  for  people  is 
only  too  quick  to  fling  the  'stificut  of  his  buth  in 
any  one's  face,  when  it  ain't  worth  paying  a  shil 
ling  to  get  it.  And  so  the  boy's  the  more  ready 
to  take  to  felon  ways  than  a  honnest  person's 
child ;  for,  fust  and  foremost,  he  ain't  got  no  ker- 
ackter  to  lose,  you  see,  and  'cos  he  ain't  got  no 
keracter,  why  honnest  people  won't  have  nothink 
at  all  to  do  with  him.  Then  I  askes  you,  sir,  as  a 
gennelman  as  has  seed  some  little  of  the  world, 
how  can  sitch  a  boy  ever  find  out  as  honnesty's 
the  best  pollercy,  as  the  saying  goes,  if  so  be  as 
he  can't  never  get  no  chance  of  gitting  so  much  as 
a  crust  of  bread  honnestly  for  hisself  ? 

"  But  there's  another  p'int  as  I  should  like  you 
to  see,  sir,  and  that  there  is  this  here.  Though 
the  mother's  heart  of  the  woman  as  bore  him  may 
be,  and  is  mostly,  dreadful  cut  up  to  see  her  poor 
little  hinnocent  with  the  prison  swaddling-clothes 
on  his  little  new-born  limbs,  and  this  makes  her 


412  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

swear  and  swear  over  agin  to  the  little  uncon 
scionable  kritter  hisself  as  she'll  lead  a  new  life 
for  his  sake  d'reckly  she  gets  her  discharge,  and 
though  she  means  it  all  too  at  the  time,  more  hon- 
nestly  than  a  homiest  woman  ever  can,  yet,  sir, 
d'reckly  as  our  gate-keeper  opens  the  door  to  her, 
and  her  baby  and  she's  got  her  libbity  agin  once 
more,  why,  back  she  goes,  in  coorse,  to  her  old 
kimpanions,  with  her  little  one  in  her  arms  (for 
where  elsewhere  has  she  to  go  to,  poor  dear?), 
and  then  her  good  resolves  is  no  better  than  fruit- 
blossoms  in  Feberrary ;  and  arter  that  her  moth 
er's  'art  won't  hardly  dare  to  open  its  lips  to  her 
self  any  more  about  the  child.  So  the  poor  little 
thing  is  sent  out  to  play  with  the  young  thieves 
and  wagabones  in  the  gutter,  and  there  the  boy 
larns  gutter  moralses  and  thieves'  p'ints  of  right 
and  wrong,  in  coorse ;  and  then  I  leaves  you  to 
judge  what  his  principles  is  like  to  be  after  a  few 
quarters  of  that  there  schooling.  'Cording,  when 
he's  about  five  or  six,  maybe,  he  comes  to  us, 
either  for  '  cadging,'  as  they  calls  it,  or  for  '  pick 
ing  up'  coals  for  his  mother  off  the  barges  'long 
shore,  or  else  for  stealing  bits  of  hold  metal  to  get 
slices  of  pudding  for  hisself,  or  p'r'aps  for  break 
ing  winders  for  the  'musement  of  a  whole  lot  of 
the  young  scarrymoudges.  And  then,  sir,  when 
he's  been  and  made  his  fust  plunge,  and  got  over 
the  fust  shudder-like  of  going  headlong  into  this 
here  pool,  why  then,  sir,  he's  ready  for  I  don't 
know  how  many  dips  agin ;  so  'cording  he  keeps 
on  going  out  and  coming  in  here,  like  the  'folks  at 
a  show  dooring  fair  time,  for  he  finds  there's  al 
ways  a  table  ready  laid  for  him  here,  and  a  well- 
haired  bed  always  kept  made  up  for  him  too,  and 
that  without  nothink  at  all  to  pay  for  it,  which 
larns  him  a  lesson,  sir,  as  there  ain't  no  unlarning 
as  ever  I  seed  in  all  my  time.  So  in  coorse  he 


FELONS    IN   THE   CKADLE.  413 

keeps  on  a-coming  backuds  and  foruds  to  us,  six 
months  out  and  four  months  in,  until  at  last  he 
gets  more  and  more  owdacious  and  devilmay- 
careyfied,  till  the  'ulks  or  the  gallus  puts  a  final 
end  at  length  ultimately  to  his  k'reer. 

"  Ah !  sir,  it  sets  my  mother's  'art  a-bleeding," 
concluded  the  good-natured  old  dame,  "  when  I 
looks  at  the  hinnocent  faces  of  these  little  things 
(as  is  liked  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  you  know, 
sir,  in  the  Church  sarvice),  and  I  knows — far  bet- 
terer  than  here  and  there  one — what  fate's  wrote 
down  in  the  book  agin  their  names,  why  then  I 
sometimes  thinks  to  myself,  surelie  it  'ud  be  bet- 
termost  if  the  wThole  litter  of  kittens  was  drownd- 
ed  outright.  If  they're  to  be  hanged  arter  a  while, 
I  says,  why,  where's  the  good  of  keeping  on  'em 
just  to  breed  more  kittens  like  theirselves  in  their 
turn,  sir,  and  have  more  hangman's  work  to  do  in 
the  final  end,  sir,  after  all?  These  is  hard  words, 
sir,  for  a  mother  to  speak,  as  has  got  a  mother's 
'art  in  her  buzzum,  and  a  whole  coopful  of  chicks 
of  her  own  at  home,  bless  'em.  But  I  can't  help 
it,  sir ;  it's  my  mother's  'art  as  puts  the  words 
into  my  mouth,  sir — it  is."  „ 

"  Come !  come,  Ben !  come  along,  boy !  I've 
seen  and  heard  enough,  lad,  and  so  have  you," 
cried  the  uncle,  as  the  dame  came  to  an  end ;  and 
then,  turning  round,  he  was  about  to  thank  the 
good  old  body  and  hurry  off;  but  the  matron 
seized  him  by  the  arm  as  she  said,  "  You're  never 
a-going  in  that  there  way,  surelie,  without  never 
so  much  as  a  shake  of  the  hand,  or  a  chuck  under 
the  chin,  or  a  '  God  bless  you'  to  my  little  ones 
here.  I  calls  this  here  little  lot  my  second  fam- 
erly,  sir ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  when  some  of  their 
times  is  up,  I  often  has  a  good  cry  over  the  part 
ing  from  some  on  'em,  the  same  as  if  they  was  a 
tearing  my  own  flesh  and  blood  from  me." 


414  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

As  the  dame  and  the  two  Benjamins  walked 
slowly  down  the  long  room,  between  the  double 
file  of  prison  cradles,  they  found  some  of  the  little 
felon  babes  propped  up  in  their  beds,  amusing 
themselves  with  the  rude  playthings  that  the 
mothers  had  invented  to  quiet  them.  One  had  a 
rag  doll,  with  a  couple  of  stitches  in  black  thread 
for  eyes ;  another  was  thumping  one  of  the  prison 
tin  platters,  and  crowing  at  the  sound  it  made ; 
and  another  was  rattling  some  pebbles  in  one  of 
the  prison  pannikins. 

A  few  of  the  mothers  were  walking  hurriedly 
up  and  down  the  room  with  their  infants  in  their 
arms,  endeavoring  to  hush  them  to  sleep  by  pat 
ting  their  backs,  and  hissing  the  while  as  a  groom 
does  to  a  horse  he  is  rubbing  down ;  and  others 
were  seated  at  the  edge  of  the  iron  bedstead,  jog 
ging  the  little  one  on  their  knees  to  allay  the  fret- 
fulness  of  teething. 

But  not  one  lullaby  song  was  to  be  heard  in 
the  place. 

As  the  visitors  passed  along,  most  of  the  women 
rose  and  courtesied  in  turn,  and  every  face  they 
saw  was  marked  more  or  less  by  that  dogged, 
sullen,  and  ill-used  air  which  is  so  distinctive  of 
the  criminal  character  before  it  is  utterly  harden 
ed  and  shameless. 

"D'ye  mind,  sir,"  whispered  the  matron,  in 
Uncle  Benjamin's  ear,  as  they  moved  on  a  few 
paces,  and  then  came  to  a  stand-still,  "  there  ain't 
a  smile  nowhere,  'cepting  on  that  there  one's  face 
— the  woman  on  my  right  here — and  she's  got 
six  months  on  it  for  bigotry,  sir?" 

"  For  what  ?"  inquired  the  old  gentleman,  in  a 
suppressed  voice,  that  still  had  a  deep  tone  of  as 
tonishment  about  it. 

The  dame  put  her  mouth  close  to  Uncle  Ben's 
ear,  and  whispered,  "  Marrying  two  husbands,  sir 
— bigotry  we  calls  it  here !" 


FELONS   IN   THE    CRADLE.  415 

Even  Uncle  Benjamin,  sad  and  sick  at  heart  as 
he  was,  had  to  blow  his  nose  violently  on  hearing 
the  explanation. 

"  Ah !  she's  a  brazen-faced  bit  of  goods,  and  I 
can't  abide  shamelessness,  I  can't,"  she  ran  on, 
with  a  significant  toss  of  the  head.  "  Yonder, 
you  see,  is  a  woman  with  two  infants,  sitting 
by  the  bed  near  the  door — don't  turn  your  head 
just  yet,  please,  sir,  or  she'll  fancy  we're  a-talking 
about  her,"  added  the  kind  old  matron,  speaking 
in  the  same  under  tone  as  one  instinctively  adopts 
in  a  sick  person's  room.  "  She  ain't  one  of  the 
twinses ;  she's  minding  another  prisoner's  child. 
Oh  yes,  they're  very  good  and  patient  to  one 
another's  children,  and  we  most  seldom  has  cases 
of  hill-treatment  to  punish  in  'em.  She's  in  for 
'tempted  'fanticide,  sir,"  continued  the  loquacious 
guide,  as  she  turned  her  head  away  from  the  young 
woman  that  Uncle  Ben  was  now  regarding  with 
an  air  of  pretended  vacancy  and  indifference; 
"  and  yet  there  ain't  a  better  mother  in  the  whole 
ward,  nor  a  kinder-hearted  kritter  breathing  nee- 
ther. 

"  That  there  prisoner,  two  off  from  the  one  with 
the  couple  of  babbies,"  the  matron  babbled  on, 
looking  straight  away  to  the  opposite  side  of  the 
ward  from  that  which  she  was  directing  Uncle 
Ben's  attention  to — "don't  you  see,  sir? — the 
woman  with  the  sailer  complexion,  and  that  there 
dreadful  cast  in  her  eye,  so  that  you  can  only  catch 
sight  of  half  the  happle  on  it,  sir — she's  a  very  bad, 
dang'rous  kerackter,  she  is :  we  had  to  take  her 
child  from  her.  Do  you  know,  she  treated  the 
poor  little  dear  so  inhumanely,  we  really  thought 
as  how  she'd  a'  been  the  death  on  it.  But  she's 
a  rare  'zeption,  she  is ;  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
I  don't  b'lieve  she's  all  there,  sir,"  the  old  gossip 
added,  pointing  to  her  forehead,  which  she  affect- 


416  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

ed  to  scratch  the  minute  afterward.  "Her  hus 
band  was  a  ground-lab'rer,  sir,  and  went  out  for 
an  ollidy  about  six  months  back,  and  she  never 
sot  eyes  on  him  since.  She's  here  for  'legal  pawn 
ing,  sir,  and  got  two  year  on  it." 

At  this  point  a  clean,  flaxen-haired  little  thing, 
with  eyes  so  intensely  blue  that  the  very  whites 
had  a  faint  tint  of  azure  in  'em,  came  toddling 
toward  the  matron  with  its  plump  short  arms 
stretched  out,  and  shrieking  "Mamma!  mamma!" 

The  matron,  or  "mother"  as  she  was  called, 
stooped  down  and  caught  the  little  human  ball  in 
her  arms,  crying,  "  What,  Annie,  my  little  ducks 
o'  dimons !"  and  then  raising  it  up,  she  fell  to  kiss 
ing  it,  and  rubbing  her  mouth  in  its  soft  neck, 
making  the  same  spluttering  noise  the  while  as 
though  she  was  washing  her  own  face  with  a 
handful  of  soap  and  water  in  her  palms.  "  Bless 
it !  bless  its  own  little  heart !  she's  mother's  own 
poppet,  she  is — a  little  booty  as  ever  was  borned, 
and  as  clean  and  sweet  as  a  new  pink,  that  she  is, 
every  bit  of  her,  sir.  This  is  my  Annie,  sir,  as  I 
calls  her ;  my  dear  little  darling  Annie,"  she  ran 
on,  as  she  tossed  the  child  up  and  down,  crying 
"  ketchy,  ketchy,"  right  in  front  of  Uncle  Benja 
min's  face — "shJs  a  sad  romp,  I  can  tell  you. 
She's  two  year  and  three  months  come  the — 

"21st  of  May,  please,"  interposed  the  tidy  pris 
on  mother  timidly,  with  a  courtesy,  for  the  woman 
had  followed  her  child  to  the  spot. 

"And  was  borned  in  this  here  prison,  sir.  The 
mother's  got  six  year  on  it,"  the  old  matron  add 
ed  aside,  as  she  kept  dancing  the  little  one  in  the 
air  till  it  fairly  laughed  again,  "  for  shoplifting, 
sir ;"  and  then,  putting  her  lips  close  to  Uncle 
Ben's  ear  again,  she  whispered,  "  Not  married." 

The  "  mother"  now  passed  up  the  ward,  car 
rying  and  cuddling  little  Annie  in  her  arms ;  and 


FELONS    IX    THE   CKADLE.  417 

as  she  journeyed  from  bed  to  bed,  she  put  her 
finger  in  the  dimples  of  the  prison  babes,  and 
made  all  kinds  of  tender  inquiries,  first  about  the 
teeth  of  this  one,  and  then  the  legs  of  that,  as  well 
as  reminding  the  women  whose  terms  were  about 
to  expire  that  their  time  would  be  up  next  so-and- 
so,  and  she  hoped  as  how  they'd  take  care  and 
never  bring  that  sweet  little  hinnocent  of  theirn 
into  such  a  place  again. 

Presently,  stopping  suddenly  short  at  one  of 
the  beds,  she  said,  '•'•That  there  is  the  most  tim- 
bersome  child  I  ever  met  with ;"  she  alluded  to  a 
poor  little  white-faced  thing  who  had  thick  irons 
down  its  legs,  and  who  was  evidently  suffering 
from  "soft  bones."  The  prison  mother  was  about 
to  lead  it  toward  Uncle  Ben ;  but,  though  the  old 
man  held  out  his  hand  toward  it,  the  littfe  creature 
hung  its  head,  and  struggled  and  screamed  to  get 
back  to  the  prison  cat  that  lay  curled  up  on  the 
bed  it  had  just  left. 

"The  mother  is  married  to  a  private  in  the 
Granadiers,  sir,"  went  on  the  matron,  "  and  she 
ain't  never  heerd  from  him  wunst  since  she  was 
took  for  making  away  with  the  work  of  her 
'ployer,  sir.  She's  got  four  year  on  it,  and  fifteen 
month  more  to  do,  sir.  You  see  the  child  is  nat'- 
ral  timbersome,  sir ;  besides,  poor  thing !  it  never 
sees  no  man's  face  here  but  the  guv'nor's  and  the 
surjin's,  so  no  wonder  it's  afeard  at  the  sight 
of  strangers'  looks. 

f  "  Well,  sir,"  she  rattled  on,  in  answer  to  a  ques 
tion  from  Uncle  Ben,  as  they  turned  away,  and, 
passing  out  of  the  ward,  proceeded  to  descend 
the  steps  that  led  to  the  "  mothers'  airing-yard," 
"  we  don't  keep  no  hinfant  babe  here  to  over  four 
year,  sir,  though  there  were  one  little  thing  as  we 
wunst  had  in  the  prison  so  long,  that  when  its 
mother's  libbity  came,  it  used  to  call  every  horse 
DD 


41S  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

it  seed  in  the  streets  a  great  big  pussy.     It  did, 
I  give  you  my  word,  sir." 

Uncle  Ben  shuddered  as  a  sense  of  the  brute 
ignorance  of  the  little  baby-prisoner  came  over 
him,  and  the  boy  at  his  side  stared  up  with  won 
der  and  terror  in  the  old  "  mother's"  face,  for  he 
remembered  the  tales  he  had  read  of  the  "  wild 
boys"  found  in  the  woods,  and  how  they  had 
grown  up  as  senseless  as  baboons. 

"  I  won't  ask  you,  sir,"  said  the  matron,  while 
passing  across  the  yard  back  to  the  passages  lead 
ing  to  the  entrance  to  the  women's  prison,  "  now 
that  you've  that  there  sweet  boy  of  yourn  with 
you,  who's  as  like  what  my  own  dear  Jemmy 
were  a  year  or  two  agone  as  ever  he  can  stare — 
only  he  ain't  got  my  Jemmy's  nose  'zackly — to 
come  and  see  our  women's  ward  over  on  the 
t'other  side,  for,  to  speak  the  candid  straightforud 
truth,  sir,  it  ain't  'zackly  the  place  a  mother,  with 
a  mother's  'art  in  her  buzzum,  would  like  to  take 
a  boy  of  tender  year  like  hizen  to.  Ah  !  they're 
shocking  brazen-faced,  ondecent,  foul-mouthed  ter- 
mygints,  that  they  is,  sir,  and  the  little-est  on  'em 
is  as  bad  as  the  biggest-est.  They'd  only  be  grin 
ning  in  the  young  gen'elman's  hinnocent  face,  sir, 
and  a-making  all  kinds  of  grimages  at  you,  sir, 
behind  your  hinnocent  back,  as  you  went  along ; 
and  as  I'm  a  mother  myself — the  mother  of  nine 
living,  sir,  and  have  had  as  many  as  a  baker's 
dozen  on  'em,  bless  'em!  in  my  time — why,  in 
coorse,  I  knows  what  a  mother's  dooty  is,  thank 
God,  and  so  I  won't  demean  myself  to  press  you 
to  stay  and  see  the  Jessybells,  sir." 

^  By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  heavy  and 
big-locked  door  by  which  they  had  entered,  and 
as  "mother"  put  the  monster  key  into  the  key 
hole,  she  paused  for  a  minute  before  turning  it  as 
she  said,  stooping  down  to  young  Ben,  "  Kiss  me, 


FELONS   IN   THE   CEADLE.  419 

my  sweet  child.  I  know  he's  a  dear  good  boy  to 
his  poor  dear  mother  as  bore  him,  by  the  very 
looks  on  him.  Your  name's  Benjamin,  ain't  it  ? 
for  I  heerd  your  dear  father  here  call  you  by  that. 
Well,  I've  got  a  Benjamin  of  my  own,  I  have,  but 
he's  four  year  younger  than  you,  if  he's  a  day ; 
and  I'm  sorry  to  say  it,  my  dear,  but  he's  the 
werry  worrit  of  my  life,  he  is,  for  he  bustis  his 
clothes  out,  till,  Lor'  love  you !  it's  one  person's 
time  to  look  after  him,  and  keep  him  any  thing 
like  tidy  and  'spectable." 

All  the  time  she  was  delivering  this  little  do 
mestic  episode  she  was  smoothing  young  Benja 
min's  hair,  or  stroking  his  cheek,  or  hugging  him 
close  up  to  her  side.  "  There,  kiss  me  agin,  dear 
child,  for  the  last  final  time,"  she  said, "  and  al 
ways  mind  and  be  a  good  boy  to  your  poor  dear 
mother,  whatever  you  do;  for  you  don't  know 
what  it  is  to  have  a  mother's  'art,  I  can  tell  you." 

The  catch  of  the  enormous  prison  lock  then  re 
sounded  with  a  loud  capstan-pall-like  click  through 
the  corridors,  and  the  mother  was  dropping  a 
courtesy  to  the  old  gentleman,  and  giving  her 
last  broad  grin  to  the  young  one,  as  the  couple 
went  nodding  to  her  through  the  doorway,  when 
she  suddenly  espied  the  gate-keeper  running,  with 
a  pewter  pot  in  his  hand,  so  as  to  get  to  the  "  wom- 
en's-side  entrance"  before  the  door  closed  again. 
"  Oh,  there  you  are  with  my  beer,  at  last,  young 
man !  Come  along,  Bennett,  for  goodness  gracious 
sake  do,  there's  a  good  soul !  for,  heaven  knows, 
I'm  come  over  quite  swoundy-like  for  the  want 
on  it." 

In  a  few  minutes  Uncle  Ben  and  his  nephew 
were  retracing  their  steps  across  the  boys'  "  side" 
of  the  prison,  and  as  the  couple  strode  along  sor 
rowfully,  the  godfather  said,  "  Ah !  my  boy,  we 


420  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

have  only  to  imagine  that  years  are  flying  past 
us  now  instead  of  minutes  to  recognize  the  little 
baby  faces  we  have  just  left  in  the  prison  nursery 
in  that  file  of  boy-thieves  that  are  exercising  yon 
der  in  the  airing-yard  before  us,  and  circling  away 
one  after  another  like  the  horses  in  the  equestrian 
booth  at  a  fair." 

As  the  endless  troop  of  little  felons  kept  shuf 
fling  on  (the  heavy  prison  boots  clattering  on  the 
flag-stones  with  a  very  different  noise  from  what 
their  bare  feet  were  wont  to  make  on  the  pave 
ment  outside  the  prison  gates),  the  uncle  told  lit 
tle  Ben  to  notice  the  figures  on  the  red  cloth  that 
was  fastened  round  the  left  arm  of  the  boys,  say 
ing  he  would  see  by  them  the  number  of  times 
they  had  been  in  prison  before.  "  Call  the  num 
bers  out,  Ben,  as  the  lads  go  by,  and  let's  hear 
the  tale  they  tell  of  boys  many  of  whom  are  not 
yet  in  their  teens,  and  none  out  of  them." 

Little  Benjamin  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  the 
story  ran  as  follows : 

10  (recommittals),  2,  4,  7,  7,  3,  6,  2,  14,  7,  12, 
10,  2,  4.* 

"  That's  enough,  my  boy — that  will  do,  in  heav 
en's  name,"  exclaimed  the  uncle;  "and  hardly 
half  a  score  years  back  these  children  were  many 
of  them  in  the  prison  nursery." 

At  this  point  the  discipline-loving  chief  warder 
approached  the  couple,  saying,  "  Like  to  see  pris'n 
bur'al-groun',  sir  ?"  "Uncle  Ben  shook  his  head. 
"Very  cur'ous — not  a  tomb-stun  'lowed  in  it — 
only  a  'nitial  letter  to  some — others  without  noth- 
ink  at  all  to  mark  whose  grave  it  is — place  chuck 
full  of  bones,  sir." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Uncle  Ben,  half  petulantly,  as 

*  These  figures  are  no  fiction,  but  were  taken  down  un 
der  similar  circumstances. — See  "Great  World  of  London," 
Part  VIII.,  p.  414. 


FELONS    IN   THE    CRADLE.  421 

if  he  thought  this  wretched  finish  to  the  story 
might  have  been  spared  him.  "  I  want  to  go." 

44  Pris'nus  own  clothes  store,  very  cur'ous  too, 
sir,"  persisted  the  showman-warder.  "  Their  own 
clothes  is  an  oncommon  strange  sight — every  one 
says  so.  All  things  been  foomigutted,  so  there's 
no  fear,  I  'sure  ye,  sir." 

"  No,  no,  man,  I  want  to  go,  I  say,"  was  the 
answer ;  whereupon  the  warder  proceeded  to  un 
lock  door  after  door  as  before,  and  to  conduct 
Uncle  Ben  and  his  nephew  back  to  the  gate. 

"Who  are  these  boys?"  asked  the  old  uncle; 
"  a  fresh  batch  of  prisoners  just  come  in,  I  sup 
pose  !" 

"  No,  sir,"  was  the  sharp  response,  "  they's  the 
'scharges." 

Uncle  Ben  as  well  as  the  warder  alluded  to  a 
group  of  some  half  dozen  lads  who  had  cast  the 
prison  garb,  and  now  stood  gathered  about  the 
little  clerk's  office  beside  the  gate-room,  habited 
in  their  own  rags  and  tatters,  ready  to  regain 
their  liberty.  Half  an  hour  before  they  had  been 
warmly  and  comfortably  clad,  but  now  many  of 
them  stood  shivering  in  their  scant  and  rent  ap 
parel. 

One  was  without  a  jacket,  while  another  had 
his  coat  pinned  up  so  as  to  hide  the  want  of  a 
waistcoat,  and  perhaps  a  shirt. 

Uncle  Ben  waited  to  see  the  story  to  its  end. 

"  William  Collins"  was  called  out  from  within 
the  clerk's  office,  and  the  warder  outside  the  of 
fice  door,  echoing  the  name,  told  the  boy  who  an 
swered  to  it  to  step  up  to  the  office  window. 

Here  he  was  placed  in  a  small  passage,  imme 
diately  in  front  of  the  casement,  within  which 
stood  one  of  the  prison  clerks,  against  a  desk  in 
the  office  on  the  other  side. 

"  You  ever  been  here  before  ?"  asked  the  clerk, 
in  a  tone  of  authority. 


422  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

"  N"o,"  was  the  simple  answer. 

"  B'longs  to  the  Docks,"  interposed  the  attend 
ant  warder ;  "  and  a  friend's  come  for  him." 

"  Ho !  let  'm  step  here,  then,"  rejoined  the 
clerk ;  and  the  "  friend,"  who  was  a  boy  hardly 
older  than  the  young  thief  himself,  no  sooner  ap 
peared  outside  the  window  than  the  voice  with 
in  went  on,  "  Who  a'  you  ?" 

"  Collins's  brother,  sir,"  the  boy  responded. 

"Well,"  the  voice  continued,  "his  majesty's 
justices  of  the  peace  'uv  oddered  this  boy  a  shil 
ling,  and  they  'opes  they'll  never  see  'm  here 
again.  So  do  you  ta'  care  of  him."  And  with 
this  admonition  and  the  money  the  couple  passed 
on,  to  wait  till  the  rest  were  ready  to  depart. 

"  We  alwa's  sen's  letter  to  paren's  or  fren's  of 
pris'nus,  sirs,  prevus  to  'scharging  on  'em,"  ex 
plained  the  chief  warder,  who  stood  aside  with 
the  two  Benjamin  Franklins  while  they  watched 
the  proceedings.  "  We  does  this  so  that  the  b'ys' 
fren's  may  be  at  gate  at  the  time  of  thur  going 
out,  so's  to  take  charge  on  'em." 

"  James  Billington"  was  next  shouted  out. 

The  minute  afterward  a  mere  urchin  made  his 
appearance  outside  the  office  window,  his  head 
scarcely  reaching  above  the  sill. 

"  You've  been  in  for  robbing  yer  mother,  eh  ?" 
began  the  clerk,  who  had  perceived  that  there 
were  strangers  present,  and  therefore  commenced 
laying  on  the  morality  in  full  force.  "  What  a 
horrible  fellow  of  a  son  you  must  be  to  go  and  do 
that !  Why  must  you  go  plundering  her,  poor 
woman,  of  all  persons  in  the  world  ?  The  next 
boy  to  you  has  been  flogged,  and  that'll  be  your 
case  if  ever  you  come  here  again,  I  can  tell  you" 
— and,  having  delivered  himself  of  this  lecture, 
he  put  his  head  out  of  the  window  and  inquired, 
"  Any  body  for  James  Billington  ?" 


How  came  you  to  break  sixty  pants  of  glass,  eh  ?' 


FELONS    IN   THE    CKADLE.  425 

"  Nobody  for  Billington,"  answered  the  gate 
keeper. 

"Where  does  your  mother  live?"  demanded 
the  clerk. 

•"  In  a  cellar  in  Hold  Street,  please,  sir,"  was 
the  reply  of  the  boy,  with  a  smile  on  his  lip,  and 
utterly  unaffected,  of  course,  by  what  had  been 
said  to  him. 

"  B'y's  been  here*>ffen  afore,"  the  chief  warder 
said  aside  to  Uncle  Ben.  "  He's  bad  boy  'deed, 
sir !" 

"  Henry  Norris"  was  the  next  lad  called  for. 

"  How  long  ha'  you  been  here,  Norris  ?"  the 
clerk  began  with  this  one. 

"  Six  weeks,"  the  boy  said,  doggedly. 

"  How  offen  afore  ?"  the  other  went  on. 

"  Three  times  here,  and  twice  in  jail  up  in  the 
country,"  was  the  cool  and  frank  rejoinder. 

"  Ha !  we're  getting  it  out  of  you  a  little,"  add 
ed  the  clerk.  "  Nobody  for  Norris,  I  s'pose?"  he 
said,  again  thrusting  his  head  out  of  the  window. 

"  No,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  gate-keeper. 

"  Thomas  Wilson"  was  then  called. 

"  What  time  ha'  you  been  here,  Wilson  ?"  in 
terrogated  the  clerk,  as  a  fresh  boy  came  up  to 
the  window,  but  who  was  so  short  that  the  man 
in  the  office  had  to  thrust  his  head  out  in  order 
to  see  him. 

"  Ten  days,  please,  sir,"  answered  the  brat,  in 
a  whining  tone. 

"  And  how  offen  afore  ?"  demanded  the  other. 

"  Six  time,  please,  sir,"  the  boy  went  on,  whin 
ing. 

"  Now  that's  very  pretty  for  a  child  of  your 
age,  ain't  it  ?"  continued  the  moral  man  in  office. 
"  How  came  you  to  break  sixty  panes  of  glass? — 
for  that's  what  you  were  charged  with,  you  know 
—eh?" 


426  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

"  I  did  it  all  along  with  other  boys,  please,  sir 
— 'eaving  stones,"  the  child  again  whined  out. 

"  A  set  of  mischeevous  young  ragamuffins,"  the 
moralist  persisted.  "  Was  the  house  empty,  eh  ?" 

"  No,  please,  sir,  it  wer'n't  no  house,  sir ;  *  it 
were  a  hold  factory,  please,  sir,  and  there  was 
about  a  hundred  panes  broke  afore  we  begunned ; 
so  us  boys  was  a  trying  to  smash  the  rest  on  'em, 
sir,  when  I  got  took."  Such^ivas  the  childish  ex 
planation  of  the  felonious  oifense. 

"Any  body  for  boy  of  the  name  of  Thomas 
Wilson  ?"  shouted  out  the  clerk. 

"  No,  sir,  nobody  for  Wilson,"  the  gate-keeper 
made  answer  once  more. 

"  Well,  then,"  continued  the  clerk,  "  that's  all 
the  'scharges  for  to-day,  so  you  can  let  'em  all  go, 
Bennett." 

"  Come  along,  Ben,"  said  the  uncle,  hurriedly, 
as  he  heard  the  last  words;  "I  want  to  see  the 
end  of  all  this.  Good-day,  warder,  good-day;" 
and  the  moment  afterward  the  officer  in  charge 
of  the  gate  opened  the  outer  door,  and  the  wretch 
ed  young  thieves  and  vagabonds  were  once  more 
at  large  in  the  world. 

Uncle  Ben  passed  with  his  nephew  through  the 
prison  portal  at  the  same  time,  and  stood  close 
against  the  gate,  watching  the  proceedings  of  the 
liberated  boys. 

The  lad  whose  "brother"  had  come  to  take 
charge  of  him  had  two  other  youths  of  rather 
questionable  appearance  waiting  to  welcome  him 
outside  the  prison  gates. 

The  other  little  creatures  looked  round  about 
to  see  if  they  could  spy  any  friend  of  theirs  loi 
tering  in  the  neighborhood. 

None  was  to  be  seen. 

Of  all  the  young  creatures  discharged  from  the 
boys'  prison  that  morning,  not  a  father,  nor  a 


UNCLE   BEN   AT   HOME.  427 

mother,  nor  even  a  grown  and  decent  friend  was 
there  to  receive  them* 

Uncle  Ben  stood  and  watched  the  wretched 
little  friendless  outcasts  turn  the  corner  of  the 
roadway,  and  saw  the  whole  of  them  go  off  in  a 
gang,  in  company  with  the  suspicious  -  looking 
youths  who  had  come  to  welcome  the  boy  whose 
"brother"  alone  had  thought  him  worth  the 
fetching. 

Then  turning  to  his  little  nephew,  he  cried 
aloud,  "  If  ever  you  forget  this  lesson,  Ben,  you've 
a  heart  of  stone,  lad — a  heart  of  stone !" 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

UNCLE    BEN    AT    HOME. 

IT  has  been  said  that  it  is  impossible  to  stand 
up  under  an  archway  during  an  April  shower  with 
a  man  of  really  great  mind  without  being  impress 
ed  that  we  have  been  conversing  with  some  su 
perior  person. 

But — no  matter,  let  it  pass. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  certain  that  we  have  but  to 
enter  the  ordinary  sitting-room  (not  the  "  show 
room,"  mark !)  of  any  person,  great  or  small,  in 
order  to  read  in  every  little  article  of  furniture  or 
knick-knackery,  or  even  in  the  odds  and  ends  that 
we  find  scattered  about,  some  slight  illustration 
of  the  pursuits,  the  habits,  the  tastes,  the  affec 
tions,  ay,  and  even  the  aspirations  of  the  individ 
ual  to  whom  the  chamber  belongs. 

Uncle  Ben's  "  own  room"  was  not  a  "  reception- 
room,"  but  a  "  retiring-room ;"  a  small  chamber 
on  "  the  two-pair  front,"  that  served  him  at  once 
for  study  and  dormitory  too. 

'    '•• J--       *  The  bare  fact. 


428  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

On  one  side  of  tbe  apartment  stood  the  high 
turn-up  bedstead,  with  its  blue  and  white  check 
ed  curtains  drawn  closely  round  it,  and  bulging- 
out  from  the  wall  like  the  hind  part  of  a  peep- 
show  caravan.  The  furniture  was  of  the  straight- 
backed,  rectangular,  and  knubbly  kind  usually 
seen  in  curiosity  shops  nowadays,  but  wThich,  in 
Uncle  Benjamin's  time,  was  hardly  old-fashioned, 
and  this  consisted  simply  of  a  small  old  oaken  ta 
ble,  knobbed  over  with  heads  of  cherubim  round 
the  sides,  with  legs  as  bulky  as  a  brewer's  dray 
man's,  and  a  kind  of  wooden  "  catch-cradle"  to 
unite  them  at  the  base,  as  well  as  two  or  three 
chairs  with  backs  as  long  and  legs  as  short  as 
weasels.  In  one  corner  was  set  a  kind  of  small 
triangular  cupboard,  with  a  square  of  looking- 
glass  in  the  lid,  and  a  basin  let  into  a  circular  hole 
beneath ;  but,  though  this  was  fitted  with  a  small 
door  below,  the  style  of  workmanship  was  so  dif 
ferent  from  the  rest  of  the  furniture,  that,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  box  of  tools  in  another  part  of 
the  room,  one  might  have  wondered  what  country 
carpenter  had  wrought  it. 

Against  the  wall  dangled  a  few  book-shelves 
slung  on  a  cord,  and  these  also  were  obviously  of 
home  manufacture.  Here  the  very  backs  of  the 
volumes  (without  reference  to  the  marginal  notes, 
with  which  many  of  the  pages  were  scribbled 
round  (formed  a  small  catalogue  of  the  tastes, 
principles,  and  habits  of  thought  peculiar  to  the 
man  who  had  "picked  them  up  cheap"  at  auc 
tions  and  book-stalls — for  many  had  the  lot-mark, 
or  second-hand  price-label  still  partly  sticking  to 
their  covers.  Here  one  shelf  was  devoted  to 
Shakspeare's  "Plays  and  Sonnets,"  Bacon's  "No- 
vum  Organum"  and  "  Moral  Essays ;"  Newton's 
"  Principia,"  "  Optics,"  and  "  Observations  on  the 
Prophecies  of  Holy  Writ ;"  Milton's  "  Paradise 


UNCLE   BEN   AT   HOME.  429 

Lost,"  "  Comus,"  "  L' Allegro,"  and  "  Penseroso," 
as  well  as  his  "  Character  of  the  Long  Parlia 
ment;"  Butler's  "Hudibras,"  Mandeville's  "Fa 
ble  of  the  Bees,  or  Private  Vices  Public  Benefits," 
and  "  The  Port  Royal  Logic ;"  Erasmus'  "  Praise 
of  Folly,"  Owen  Feltham's  "  Resolves,"  and  a 
translation  of  Seneca  on  "  Old  Age ;"  "  A  Brief 
Account  of  the  Controversies  between  the  Nom 
inalists  and  Realists,"  John  Bunyan's  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  and  Sir  Thomas  More's  "Utopia,  or 
the  Happy  Republic ;"  Longintis  "  On  the  Sub 
lime  and  Beautiful,"  Bishop  Butler's  "Sermons 
on  Human  Nature,"  Evelyn's  "  Sylva,  or  a  Dis 
course  on  Forest-trees,"  as  well  as  Sir  Thomas 
Brown's  "  Religio-Medici"  and  "  Vulgar  Errors." 

On  the  shelf  beneath  this  again  were  packed  the 
"Life  of  Martin  Luther,"  and  his  "Table-talk," 
the  "  Trial  and  Martyrdom  of  John  Huss,"  and 
the  works  of  Wicliff,  with  Baxter's  "  Plea  for  the 
Quakers ;"  the  Sermons  of  Bishop  Fuller  and  Jer 
emy  Taylor,  together  with  the  "  Holy  Living  and 
Dying"  of  the  latter,  besides  Peter  Folger's  quaint 
poem  entitled  "  A  Looking-glass  for  the  Times," 
Defoe's  "  Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters,"  and 
Dr.  Mather's  "Essay  to  do  Good,"  not  forgetting 
"The  Whole  Duty  of  Man." 

Then  the  lower  shelf  of  all  was  filled  with  Plu 
tarch's  "Lives"  and  Fuller's  "Worthies,"  "The 
History  of  the  Crusades,"  Josephus'  "  History 
of  the  Jews,"  "  The  History  of  England,"  and 
also  that  of  "  The  Christian  Church,"  besides  Ra 
leigh's  "  Travels  Round  the  World,"  and  "  Some 
Account  of  the  present  State  of  Jerusalem." 

Moreover,  there  were  a  few  stray  volumes 
equally  characteristic  of  the  occupier  of  the  apart 
ment,  such  as  Nicholas  Culpepper's  "Herbal," 
and  a  "  Treatise  on  Apparitions  and  Ghosts,"  to 
gether  with  a  small  "  Manual  of  Short-hand,"  a 


430  YOUNG   BENJAMIN    FKANKLIN. 

"  History  of  Witchcraft,"  a  copy  of  the  "  Test  and 
Corporation  Acts,"  a  pocket  "  Latin  Dictionary," 
and  a  well-thumbed  "  Concordance ;"  while  ar 
ranged  along  the  top  of  the  drawers  beneath  was 
a  series  of  huge  volumes  labeled  "  Biblical  Com 
mentaries,"  and  secretly  stowed  away  on  one  of 
the  shelves  of  the  cupboard  in  the  wall,  beside  the 
fireplace,  was  a  small  regiment  of  octavos  in  the 
shape  of  Bayle's  "  Philosophical  Dictionary,"  and 
the  folio  edition  of  Hobbes'  "  Leviathan,"  as  well 
as  his  "  Analysis  of  the  Human  Intellect  and  Af 
fections." 

Again,  the  few  prints  about  the  room  were  each 
illustrative  of  the  true  character  of  little  Ben's  god 
father,  and  told  the  observer  that  Uncle  Benjamin 
was  something  more  than  a  strict  Puritan  in  his 
tastes,  for  pinned  against  the  wall  was  Holbein's 
"Dance  of  Death,"  as  well  as  a  few  of  Rem 
brandt's  etchings  that  he  had  picked  up  from  his 
Dutch  friends  in  the  town ;  then,  besides  these, 
there  was  a  grand  steel  engraving  of  Thomas 
Franklin,  his  elder  brother,  in  his  barrister's-  wig 
and  gown  (this  was  dedicated  to  Squire  Palmer, 
of  Northampton),  together  with  a  small  water- 
color  painting  of  the  old  smithy  at  Ecton,  in 
Northamptonshire,  as  it  appeared  after  the  heavy 
snow-storm  of  1642,  with  "Benjamin  Franklin, 
Pinxit"  scribbled  in  one  corner.  Farther,  above 
the  mantel-piece  was  pinned  one  of  the  pictorial 
conceits  that  were  so  popular  at  the  period,  con 
sisting  of  a  full-length  portrait  of  Uncle  Ben  him 
self,  drawn  half  "in  his  habit  as  he  lived,"  and 
half  skeleton,  and  evidently  painted  by  the  same 
hand  as  sketched  the  family  forge,  while  on  the 
other  side  of  this  was  a  simple  curl  of  flaxen  hair, 
framed  and  glazed,  with  the  signature  of  a  letter 
in  a  female  hand  pasted  below  it,  saying  merely, 

"  Thine  till  death,  Mary." 


UNCLE   BEN   AT   HOME. 

The  only  evidence  of  the  religious  temperament 
of  the  man  was  the  following  Bible  text,  written 
out  large,  in  Uncle  Ben's  own  hand,  and  pasted 
up  between  the  lock  of  hair  and  the  deadly-lively 
portrait  of  Uncle  Ben  himself: 


"  When  thou  prayest,  thou  shalt  not  be  as  the 
hypocrites  are;  for  they  love  to  pray  standing 
in  the  synagogues,  and  in  the  corners  of  the 
streets,  that  they  may  be  seen  of  men.  Verily, 
I  say  unto  you,  They  have  their  reward. 

"But  thou,  when  thou  prayest,  enter  into 
thy  closet  •  and  when  thou  hast  shut  thy  door, 


pray  to  thy  Father  which  is  in  secret ;  and 
thy  Father,  which  seeth  in  secret,  shall  reward 
thee  openly" — Matt.,  vi.,  5,  6. 


The  underscoring  of  the  words  "  seen  of  men," 
and  "  when  thou  hast  shut  thy  door"  was  Uncle 
Ben's  own. 

On  the  table,  however,  stood  the  old  family 
Telic,  the  "joint-stool,"  which  Uncle  Ben  had  beg 
ged  as  an  heir-loom  of  his  elder  brother  Thomas, 
the  barrister,  before  leaving  Ecton  for  New  En 
gland,  and  by  means  of  which  the  forefathers  of 
the  Franklin  family  used  to  read  their  Bible  in 
secret  (at  a  time  when  it  was  "felony"  to  do  so), 
with  the  book  fastened  under  the  lid,  so  that  the 
volume  might  be  hidden  the  instant  the  approach 
of  the  dreaded  "apparitor"  was  announced  by  the 
boy  stationed  at  the  door.  The  book  was  still 
kept  conscientiously  hidden  as  before ;  for,  though 
the  government  apparitor  was  no  longer  feared, 
Uncle  Ben  dreaded  the  social  spy  (who  will  not 
allow  us  still  to  worship  as  we  please)  catching 
him  at  his  devotions.  Indeed,  the  honest-natured 
old  fellow  hated  in  his  heart  any  thing  that  might 
even  seem  like  the  parade  of  what  he  knew  to  be, 


432  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

when  deeply  felt,  a  purely  secret  emotion  ;  for  he 
did  not  scruple  to  declare  that  as  love  is  always 
mute  in  its  profundity,  and  grief  chatters  only 
when  dumb  despair  is  passing  into  whining  mel 
ancholy,  so  true  religious  reverence  is  silent  and 
solemn  as  the  woods  which  are  ever  congenial  to  it. 

Within  this  joint-stool  also  was  kept  the  print 
ed  list,  that  was  regularly  sent  to  Uncle  Ben  ev 
ery  year,  of  the  subscriptions  and  donations  to  the 
principal  hospital  of  the  town  during  the  past 
twelvemonth.  The  eye  might  have  looked  up 
and  down  the  grand  names  and  the  rich  array  of 
figures  till  Doomsday,  and  never  have  found  there 
even  so  much  as  a  B.  F.  21s.,  though  in  turning 
over  the  pages  it  might  have  detected  written  at 
the  end  of  the  long  list,  in  the  same  clear  hand  as 
that  which  had  penned  the  text  over  the  mantle- 
piece,  the  following  quotation : 

"  Therefore,  when  thou  doest  thine  alms,  do  not 
sound  a  trumpet  before  thee,  as  the  hypocrites  do 
in  the  synagogues  and  in  the  streets,  that  they 
may  have  glory  of  men.  Verily  I  say  unto  you, 
They  have  their  reward. 

"Jhft  ic ken  thou  doest  alms,  let  not  thy  left 
hand  know  what  thy  right  hand  doeth" 

These,  with  the  addition  of  the  ever-memorable 
two  volumes  of  manuscript  sermons  that  he  had 
taken  down  himself  from  the  most  celebrated 
preachers  of  his  time,  and  a  dumpy  ear-trumpet, 
that  was  not  unlike  a  cow's  crumpled  horn,  and 
which  of  late  years  he  had  used  in  church,  so  as 
not  to  lose  a  word  of  the  discourse  he  wanted  to 
transcribe — these,  we  say,  with  occasionally  one 
flower  in  a  tumbler  of  water,  and  a  Dutch  oven 
for  the  cooking  of  "Welsh  rarebits" — for  which 
the  old  man  frankly  confessed  an  overweening 
weakness  of  the  flesh — made  up  our  broker's  in 
ventory  of  Uncle  Ben's  worldly  goods. 


UNCLE   BEN    EXPLAINS  THE   HUTIF.B  OF   LIFE, 


UNCLE   BEN    AT   HOME.  435 

The  boy  and  his  uncle  sat  at  either  end  of  the 
small  oaken  table,  with  the  joint-stool  between 
them,  sipping  their  morning's  porringer  of  bread 
and  milk,  in  front  of  the  little  wood  fire  that 
crackled  away  on  the  hearth,  for  the  autumn  days 
had  suddenly  set  in  chilly. 

"  Now,  Master  Ben,"  began  the  godfather,  "  we 
have  looked  up  our  text,  and  are  well  primed  for 
the  discourse,  so  I  hope  you've  got  your  sitting 
breeches  on  this  morning,  for  I  fancy  we  shall 
want  some  sticking-plaster,  lad,  to  keep  you  to 
your  chair  before  I  have  done  with  you.  Yet 
stay !  when  we've  got  the  porringers  out  of  the 
way,  you  shall  have  my  picture  there  of  the  old 
smithy  at  Ecton  to  copy;  so  you  can  sit  and 
draw,  while  I  walk  about  the  room  and  talk,  and 
that'll  take  the  fidgets  out  of  the  pair  of  us." 

It  was  not  long  before  the  breakfast  things  were 
cleared  away,  and  room  made  at  one  corner  of  the 
table  for  the  sheet  of  paper,  as  well  as  the  painting 
that  the  boy  was  to  work  upon  while  he  listened. 

Then  the  old  man,  having  cut  a  pencil  for  the 
youth  with  a  knife  that  had  no  end  of  blades  and 
a  small  set  of  tools  besides  in  its  handle,  and 
lent  him  his  box  of  colors  for  the  occasion,  said, 
"  There,  lad,  now  go  to  work ;  sketch  the  outline 
in  lightly  first,  and  then  just  fill  in  the  little  bits 
of  color  here — the  red  glare  of  the  fire  inside  the 
forge,  you  see,  and  the  dark,  swarthy  figure  there 
of  old  Mat  Wilcox  ;  for  that  was  meant  for  Mat. 
I  wonder  where  he  is  now,  poor  fellow.  I  re 
member  well  his  standing  to  me  for  the  picture, 
just  as  you  see  him  there,  Ben,  with  his  shirt 
sleeves  rolled  up,  and  his  big  leathern  apron  on, 
in  the  act  of  hammering  away  at  the  glowing  bit 
of  metal  he  holds  in  the  pincers.  And  after  that, 
lad,  you  can  put  in  the  black  clouds  of  smoke 
pouring  out  of  the  forge  chimney,  and  the  gray 


436  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

leaden  sky  there,  as  well  as  the  bright  green  little 
specks  of  houseleek  that  the  snow  has  not  quite 
covered  over  on  the  roof  at  one  part,  you  see — 
and  the  robin,  too,  perched  on  the  thatch  where 
the  snow's  thawed  there  by  the  flue,  and  with  the 
trident  marks  of  his  feet  all  along  the  roof.  Then 
that  done,  lad,  you  can  pass  on  to  color  in  the 
under  parts  of  the  boughs  here  of  the  old  beech- 
tree  that  grew  beside  the  forge,  and  the  two  or 
three  little  children  there  peeping  in  at  the  door 
— let  me  see,  whose  children  were  they  ?  Oh,  I 
remember.  "Ha  —  ah!"  the  old  man  sighed, 
"what  would  I  give  to  see  the  old  place  again, 
and  have  all  the  fresh  thoughts  of  one's  youth 
rush  back  into  one's  brain !  Ha — ah !  but  that 
can  never  be  now.  There,"  he  broke  off  sudden 
ly,  as  he  flung  the  recollections  from  him,  "  you 
needn't  take  any  particular  pains  over  it,  boy,  for 
it  isn't  the  sort  of  thing  to  please  my  taste  now. 
There's  too  much  white  and  too  much  bright  color 
about  it  to  suit  my  eye  at  present.  Still,  it's  a 
nice  thing  to  look  upon,  Ben,  bad  as  it  is — a  very 
nice  thing ;  for  when  I  did  it  I  was  but  little  more 
than  your  own  age,  boy,  and  I  can  hardly  glance 
at  it  now  without  feeling  young  again.  However, 
this'll  never  do,"  he  broke  away  suddenly  again, 
"  for  we  must  go  to  work,  the  pair  of  us." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A    PEEP    INTO    THE    HEART. 

THE  old  man  passed  his  hands  behind  his  skirts, 
and  began  striding  up  and  down  the  room  as  he 
said,  "  Well,  lad,  we  understand  something  about 
the  business  and  the  amusements  of  life,  and  we 
now  want  to  find  out  what  are  its  duties." 


A   PEEP   INTO   THE   HEART.  437 

"  Oh  yes,  uncle,"  cried  the  boy,  "  I  know  now 
what  you  mean ;  what  I  saw  at  the  poor-house 
and  the  jail  taught  me  a  great  deal." 

"  Not  so  fast,  boy,  not  so  fast !  We'll  see  what 
is  the  lesson  they  ought  to  teach  you  by-and-by," 
rejoined  the  uncle.  "All  in  good  time,  my  little 
philosopher,  all  in  good  time.  Now  you  remem 
ber  I  told  you,  Ben,  that  to  experience  a  sensual 
pleasure  it  is  essential  that  the  object  should  be 
immediately  present  to  us  ?  The  sugar,  for  in 
stance,  is  on  our  tongue,  the  perfume  in  our  nos 
trils,  the  musical  note  ringing  in  the  ear,  and  then 
we  feel  immediately,  without  any  thought  inter 
vening,  that  the  sensation  is  more  or  less  agreea 
ble  to  us.  With  an  intellectual  pleasure,  howev 
er,  the  enjoyment  is  never  derived  directly  from 
the  sensible  impression  itself,  but  rather  from  the 
peculiar  nature  of  the  thoughts,  or  intellectual 
perceptions  engendered  within  the  brain.  For 
instance,  in  the  pleasure  we  derive  from  wit :  the 
sensible  impression  which  causes  the  perception 
of  the  odd  association  may  be  neither  agreeable 
nor  disagreeable  to  us.  We  may  not  cdre  about 
the  tone  in  which  it  is  uttered,  nor  the  paper  and 
print  on  which  we  read  it ;  but  the  perception  of 
the  extravagance  in  the  connection  of  the  ideas  is 
no  sooner  forced  upon  us  by  such  means  than  we 
are  immediately  thrown  into  convulsions  of  de 
light.  So,  again,  with  the  imagery  and  sugges 
tions  of  poetry,  and  the  contemplation  of  works 
of  high  art,  as  well  as  the  sublimities  of  nature ; 
the  mere  sensation  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
intellectual  enjoyment  farther  than  being  the 
cause  of  the  peculiar  condition  of  mental  exer 
cise,  excitement,  or  satisfaction  we  are  thrown 
into,  and  from  which  alone  the  enjoyment  pro 
ceeds." 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  can  make  out  the  difference 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

pretty  well,  uncle,"  interposed  the  boy,  looking  up 
from  his  drawing  for  a  minute. 

"  Very  well,  Ben,"  went  on  the  teacher ;  "  and 
I  must  now  point  out  to  you  another  distinction, 
and  that  is  the  main  distinction  between  the  in 
tellectual  and  the  moral  pleasures  of  our  nature." 

The  boy  paused  to  hear  the  explanation. 

"  In  what  are  called  moral  pleasures,"  contin 
ued  the  other,  "  there  is  always  associated  a  per 
ception  of  some  good  or  evil  happening  to  our 
selves  or  others,  but  with  intellectual  pleasures  no 
such  perception  is  connected." 

"  Really,  uncle,  I  don't  see  that"  argued  the  lit 
tle  fellow.  "  Isn't  this  picture  now  good  to  me  ? 
and  wasn't  what  you  said  to  me  about  books  the 
other  day  just  as  good  to  me  too,  in  its  way,  as 
what  old  c  mother'  said  about  the  poor  little  pris 
on  babies  ?" 

"  The  confusion,  my  little  man,"  replied  Uncle 
Ben,  "is  merely  the  confusion  of  words  loosely 
used  rather  than  any  want  of  distinctness  in  tho 
ideas.  We  call  sweetmeats  good,  and  say  that 
such  a  poem  is  good ;  and  we  speak  of  a  good 
joke,  a  good  idea,  and  even  a  good  number,  or  a 
good  deal,  as  well  as  good  fortune  and  good  men. 
But  this  is  only  our  vague  way  of  talking,  and 
there  is  no  necessity  to^be  always  'speaking  by 
the  card,'  as  Shakspeare  calls  it,  for  this  would 
make  our  conversation  savor  more  of  the  crabbed- 
ness  of  scholastic  logic  than  the  grace  of  familiar 
intercourse.  We  need  to  be  precise  only  where 
precision  is  needed,  in  order  to  prevent  mistakes 
between  the  delicate  shades  of  ideas  and  feelings. 
In  common  parlance,  it  is  enough  to  say  a  thing 
is  green  for  us  to  know  roughly  what  is  its  pecul 
iar  color;  but  with  artists,  who  are  aware  that 
there  are  infinite  varieties  of  this  particular  color, 
we  require  to  define,  if  possible,  the  precise  hue  or 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEART.          439 

species  of  green :  is  it  light  green,  or  c  green  ver- 
diter,'  or  c  terre-verte,'  or  « Brunswick  green,'  or 
is  it  a  i  green  gray,'  and  so  on.  Well,  then,  the 
word  good,  in  its  strict  signification,  is  any  thing 
which  benefits  or  promotes  the  permanent  well- 
being  of  ourselves  or  others,  and  not  merely  that 
which  pleases  us  for  the  moment,  no  matter  ^how 
purely  or  transcendently.  In  this  sense,  friend 
ship  is  good,  kindness  good,  the  same  as  food  is 
good,  and  even  medicine  itself  is  good,  though  it 
may  be  sensually  disagreeable  to  us." 

"Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean  now,"' said  the  boy ; 
"  good,  then,  I  suppose,  is  what  serves  to  do  us 
good,  as  people  say." 

"Right,  lad.  It  is  what  tends  to  promote  our 
worldly  welfare ;  therefore  you  will  see  readily 
enough,  that  however  much  a  smart  joke  or  fine 
poem  may  serve  to  delight  us,  it  can  not  logically 
be  said  to  be  good,  and  that  simply  because  it  does 
not  serve  to  advance  our  well-being." 

"  Yes,  yes,  uncle,  I  understand  it  now,  perfect 
ly,"  exclaimed  the  young  artist. 

"  That  point  being  settled  then,"  proceeded  the 
old  man,  "  of  course  it  follows  that  a  moral  pleas 
ure  is  the  enjoyment  we  derive  from  the  percep 
tion  of  some  worldly  good  or  benefit  accruing  to 
ourselves  or  others;  so  now  let  us  proceed  to 
find  out  what  this  worldly  good  or  benefit  really 
means,  and  then  we  shall  understand  why  things 
may  be  agreeable,  and  good  too,  as  food  and  fruit 
are ;  health,  as  well  as  kindly  counsel,  and  charity 
too." 

"Well,  uncle,"  asked  the  youth,  who  was^anx- 
ious,  after  what  he  had  seen,  to  have  the  riddle 
unriddled  as  quickly  as  possible, "  and  what  does 
worldly  good  or  benefit,  as  you  say,  really  mean  ?" 
"  I  must  turn  your  thoughts  back  again,  Ben, 
before  answering  that  question,"  was  the  reply. 


440  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

"  Now  what  did  I  tell  you  was  the  great  boon  of 
sensual  pleasure  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  I  remember,  uncle !"  the  little  fellow  cried, 
starting  from  his  seat,  "  you  called  them  c  after- 
graces ;'  you  said  they  were  enjoyments  that  had 
been  superadded  —  that  was  the  word  you  used 
— to  the  operations  of  the  senses  themselves,  and 
that  there  was  no  real  necessity  for  the  addition 
of  them  ever  having  been  made.  I  recollect  well 
how  you  told  me  that  light  was  quite  enough  for 
the  purpose  of  seeing,  still  the  beauty  of  color 
and  form  had  been  added  to  it ;  sound  sufficient 
for  hearing,  still  melody  had  been  connected  with 
it  —  I'm  repeating  it  all  as  nearly  as  possible  in 
your  words,  uncle  —  and  that,  though  food  alone 
was  necessary  to  allay  appetite  and  sustain  life, 
yet  it  had  been  made  delicious  to  us  as  well. 
And  all  these  things  you  said  too,  uncle,  were 
4  signal  evidences' — I  remember  the  term  well — 
of  the  goodness  and  kindness  of  the  Creator  to 
his  creatures." 

Uncle  Ben  took  the  little  fellow  and  hugged 
him  in  his  arms,  for  this  was  the  religion  he  want 
ed  his  godson  to  get  fast  and  deep  into  his  heart, 
and  the  religion  that  the  old  man  dearly  loved  to 
talk  about  too ;  for  he  knew  how  it  made  a  tem 
ple  of  the  whole  world — a  temple  not  only  of  the 
highest  beauty,  but  of  the  highest  and  sweetest 
worship,  filling  the  mind  to  overflowing  with  the 
fine  composite  emotion  of  admiration,  love,  grati 
tude,  sublimity,  and  reverence.  Again  and  again 
he  hugged  the  boy,  for  he  now  knew  that  he  had 
not  been  talking  to  the  winds  as  they  sat  by  the 
sea-shore  at  night,  and  he  told  the  little  fellow 
with  his  kisses  how  glad  he  was  to  see  the  fruit- 
buds  bursting  forth  at  last  in  the  little  sapling 
that  he  had  long  loved  to  tend  and  rear. 

The  boy  knew  the  old  man's  inarticulate  Ian- 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEART.          441 

guage  by  heart  as  well  and  naturally  as  the  young 
bird  comprehends  the  chirrup  of  its  parent,  and 
every  fond  embrace  of  Uncle  Ben  made  his  nerves 
quiver  as  harp-strings  that  are  tuned  in  unison 
are  said  to  vibrate  responsively  to  each  other. 

Presently  the  uncle  was  pacing  the  chamber  as 
before,  and  the  boy  once  more  sketching  away  at 
the  table. 

"  Well,  then,  my  little  man,  I  now  want  to  show 
you,"  resumed  the  teacher,  "  that  as  our  sensual 
and  intellectual  pleasures  are  bountiful,  and  won- 
drously  benevolent  additions  to  the  mere  perceiv 
ing  and  knowing  faculties  of  the  senses  and  the 
intellect  itself,  so  the  moral  pleasures,  or  the  sense 
of  moral  good,  is  the  crowning  goodness  and  kind 
ness  of  all.  Why  should  we  have  been  made  to 
feel  gratified  for  any  thing,  Ben  ?  why  ?" 

He  paused  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  add 
ed,  "  There  was  no  necessity,  lad,  for  such  a  feel 
ing  ;  the  exigencies  of  continued  existence  did  not 
require  it — for  flies  live  on  for  a  term ;  they  go 
after  their  food,  and  eat  it,  and  yet  no  insect  ever 
had  an  affection  for  the  hand  that  fed  it.  Try  and 
imagine  fondness  in  a  gnat,  gratitude  in  a  flea, 
love  in  a  maggot,  and  you  will  comprehend  that 
there  was  no  vital  necessity  for  the  addition  of 
any  such  emotions  to  man.  The  human  maggot 
might  have  seen  and  thought,  calculated  and  rea 
soned,  just  as  acutely  as  he  does  now;  he  might 
have  known  as  much  science,  have  learned  as 
many  languages,  have  been  as  profound  in  the 
subtleties  of  logic  and  metaphysics  as  he  is  at 
present,  without  any  heart  at  all — nay,  he  might 
perhaps  have  been  even  deeper  skilled,  and  more 
subtle  and  clear-sighted,  lacking  human  emotions 
than  possessing  them ;  for  the  heart  often  warps 
the  judgment  of  the  brain,  as  is  seen  in  what  is 
termed  sentiment,  even  as  the  brain  often  checks 


442  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FEANKLIN. 

the  promptings  of  the  heart,  as  we  ourselves,  Ben, 
saw  in  the  matter  of  prison  discipline." 

"  Well,  uncle,  and  why  should  we  have  been 
made  to  feel  grateful  for  any  thing  ?"  asked  young- 
Ben  ;  and  he  would  have  added,  "  grateful  as  I 
now  feel  to  you ;"  but,  boy  as  he  was,  he  blushed 
at  the  idea  of  making  empty  professions. 

"Simply,  my  son, because  God, in  his  goodness, 
has  willed  it  so,"  returned  the  pious  old  man,  sol 
emnly  ;  and  a  quick  observer  might  have  noted 
the  uplifting  of  the  soul  at  the  same  time,  in  the 
slight  elevation  of  the  eye,  as  he  uttered  the  words. 
"  We  might  have  eaten  our  bread,  lad,  yes,  and 
have  relished  the  dainty  snack  of  the  new  loaf 
too,  and  yet  not  have  felt  the  grateful  and  half- 
sacred  pleasure  we  do  in  looking  at  a  corn-field. 
We  might  have  slaked  our  thirst  in  the  crystal 
spring,  ay,  and  have  enjoyed  all  the  deliciously 
pure  delight  of  a  draught  of  cool,  clear,  and  fresh 
water,  and  yet  never  have  positively  loved  the 
brook-side,  nor  have  regarded  certain  wells  as 
holy  places.  We  might  have  quaffed  our  moth 
er's  milk,  Ben  (that  wondrous  elixir  which  the 
kindly  providence  of  the  great  Father  has  made 
to  gush  forth,  as  the  one  indisputable  human  birth 
right,  on  our  very  entry  into  the  world — a  fluid  in 
which  the  subtlest  chemistry  can  detect  no  germ 
of  bone,  muscle,  or  nerve,  hair,  nail,  or  blood,  and 
yet  which  holds  all  the  elements  of  the  human 
body  in  the  most  perfect  solution) — we  might 
have  quaffed  this,  I  say,  and  we  might  still  have 
found  our  first  delight  in  the  sweet  fountain  of  our 
parent's  bosom,  and  yet  the  babe  need  not  have 
been  made  to  turn  up  its  little  eyes  and  smile  its 
gratitude  in  the  face  of  her  who  nourishes  it  as  it 
drinks  in  the  liquid  life.  Neither  was  there  any 
vital  necessity  why  the  very  first  emotions  stir 
ring  the  heart  should  have  been  the  purest  and 


A   PEEP    INTO    THE    HEART.  413 

holiest  of  all  worldly  feelings — those  of  love  and 
gratitude,  almost  to  adoration,  for  the  gentle  and 
fond  creature  that  nurses  us. 

"  We  might,  lad,"  the  old  man  continued,  after 
a  pause,  "  rather  have  been  sent  into  the  world 
mentally  mature,  with  our  brain  as  fully  developed 
as  that  of  a  new-born  bee,  and  have  been  created 
wise  and  reasoning  young  imps,  had  it  been  so 
willed ;  and  we  might  then  have  asked  ourselves, 
as  we  lay  in  our  cradle,  why  should  we  be  grate 
ful  for  all  this  maternal  care  ?  why  should  we  love 
the  mother  that  feeds  and  fosters  us  ?  Our  judg 
ment,  too,  might,  under  such  conditions,  have 
whispered  in  our  ear,  it  was  no  merit  on  her  part 
to  do  so ;  she  was  made  to  love  and  cherish,  and 
can  not  choose  but  obey  the  impulse  within  her. 
And  all  this  fine  common  sense  might  have  frit 
tered  human  gratitude  down  to  mere  brute  folly, 
when  looked  at  under  the  withering  scrutiny  of 
cold-blooded  criticism.  Yet,  my  little  man,  log 
ically  foolish  as  this  same  gratitude  or  love  may 
appear,  it  is  assuredly  morally  beautiful,  ay,  and 
the  highest  moral  beauty  too ;  and  without  it  we 
should  have  begun  life  but  as  mere  parasitical 
vermin,  with  no  sense  nor  regard  for  the  body 
which  feeds  us. 

"  Oh,  uncle,  uncle,"  exclaimed  the  boy,  throw 
ing  down  his  pencil,  "  I  never  knew  there  was  so 
much  goodness  in  the  world." 

"  It  is  a  world  full  of  goodness,  Ben,  as  it  is  a 
world  full  of  beauty,  if  we  will  but  open  our  eyes 
to  it,"  responded  the  teacher,  "for  it  is  God's  own 
handiwork,  ornate  with  all  the  wondrous  good 
ness  and  beauty  of  the  divine  nature." 

The  old  man  reflected  for  a  moment,  and  then 
said,  "  Well,  you  see  now,  Ben,  that  we  have  our 
sense  of  moral  good  and  moral  beauty  given  to 
us  over  and  bcvond  our  reason  and  our  sense  of 


444  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

intellectual  delight,  even  as  our  capacity  of  enjoy 
ing  the  agreeableness  of  sensible  impressions  has 
been  superadded  to  our  mere  sensations  them 
selves,  and  we  can  only  bow  our  head  and  lift 
up  our  soul  in  thankfulness  for  the  profuse  benev 
olence  of  the  gifts." 

The  little  fellow  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  cried  aloud  with  all  a  boy's  fervor,  "  Thank 
you — thank  you  both." 

"Now  it  is  the  instinctive  gratitude  we  feel, lad, 
when  any  good  is  done  to  us,"  the  uncle  resumed, 
"  or,  indeed,  when  any  pleasure  is  given  to  us,  as 
well  as  the  instinctive  love  which  springs  up  with 
in  us  for  the  cause  of  such  pleasure  or  good,  that 
makes  the  whole  world  not  only  a  world  of  beau 
ty,  but  a  world  of  love  too.  It  is  the  continued 
reverting  of  the  mind  to  past  enjoyment,  and  the 
gratefulness  that  the  mere  memory  of  a  pleas 
urable  feeling  produces  on  the  soul,  that  make 
up  that  sweet  and  tender  affection  of  our  nature 
which  we  call  regard /  and  it  is  this  continued 
regard,  or  the  new  delight  we  experience  in  con 
templating  the  causes  of  our  past  delights,  which 
makes  objects  that  are  beautiful  to  us  become  ob 
jects  of  love  also.  Hence  we  not  only  like  the 
flowers,  the  birds,  and  the  sunshine,  the  brooks 
and  the  fields,  the  woods,  the  country  lanes,  and 
the  sea-shore,  but  we  get  to  love  them  also.  The 
entire  world  thus  comes  to  be  garlanded  over  with 
our  affections,  and  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
earth  hung  with  some  bright  lamp  of  our  adora 
tion,  while  even  the  light-threads  of  the  stars 
themselves  serve  as  golden  cords  to  link  our  heart 
with  the  very  firmament.  The  sweet  aroma  of 
the  rose,  for  instance,  Ben,"  he  went  on,  "fills 
the  nostrils  with  a  luscious  perfumed  vapor — an 
ethereal  incense  of  honey-dew,  that  steeps  the 
sense  in  a  balm  of  redolent  delight,  while  the  del- 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEART.          445 

icate  tinting  of  the  blossom,  that  is  a  pinky  ball 
of  beauty,  together  with  the  wondrous  packing 
of  its  many  petals,  and  the  fine,  smooth  texture  of 
the  rose-leaves,  that  are  soft  as  foam  in  the  hand, 
as  well  as  the  charming  symmetry  and  rounded- 
ness  of  the  composite  form,  with  the  exquisitely 
varied  undulating  lines  of  the  details,  besides  the 
pretty  serrate  edges  and  elegant  oval  shape  of  the 
richly  contrasting  green  leaves  below,  jutting  here 
and  there  from  the  reedy  flower-stem,  bespurred 
with  many  a  little  spine — all  these  points  of  pret- 
tiness  serve  in  their  turn  to  charm  the  palate  of 
the  eye  with  the  daintiest  visual  luxury,  so  that 
the  sense  is  doubly  gratified.  And  then,  in  the 
very  gratefulness  of  our  nature,  the  mind  turns 
instinctively  to  the  cause  of  the  delight,  and  gets 
to  love,  and  look  with  thankfulness  upon  the  little 
garden  beauty  for  the  pleasure  it  has  given  us. 
Nor  does  the  expression  of  the  soul's  gratitude 
last  only  while  the  charm  is  on  us ;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  so  enduring  is  our  thankfulness,  that 
even  the  very  idea  of  the  rose  afterward  is  suffi 
cient  to  revive  the  sense  of  all  its  associate  win- 
someness;  and  thus  we  never  hear  the  name  of 
the  flower,  nor  think  of  the  graceful,  odorous  blos 
som,  without  having  a  regard  for  the  object  it 
self—without  turning  the  mind  back  to  the  enjoy 
ment  it  gave  us,  and  feeling  a  faint  touch  of  the 
past  pleasure  thrilling  the  brain  again.  As  it  is 
with  the  rose,  Ben,  so  is  it  with  every  other  object 
of  natural  beauty,  till  the  world  itself  becomes  a 
galaxy  of  bright  associations  and  glowing  endear 
ments  ;  and  every  tiny  bit  of  prettiness  we  can 
remember  in  the  hedgerows,  on  the  hill-side,  by 
the  river's  brink,  in  the  caves,  on  the  rocks,  upon 
the  cliffs,  and  along  the  shore,  seems  to  shine  like 
a  little  star  in  the  brain,  and  to  twinkle  in  the  dark 
dome  of  the  memory  with  all  the  tender  glory  of 
the  holiest  love." 


446  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FEANKLIN. 

Young  Ben's  heart  was  too  deeply  touched  for 
words ;  so,  starting  from  his  seat,  he  ran  toward 
his  teacher,  and  flinging  his  arms  about  the  old 
man's  neck,  kissed  him  again  and  again,  as  if  he 
was  trying  to  give  back  a  little  of  the  love  his 
uncle  had  bred  in  him ;  and  then,  as  if  half  abash 
ed,  he  hid  his  head  upon  the  other's  shoulder. 
The  godfather  knew  what  it  all  meant,  and  loved 
the  boy  the  more  for  the  very  speechlessness  of 
the  emotion  that  was  on  him. 

"  Come,  my  lad,"  at  last  Uncle  Ben  said,  "  we 
have  too  much  to  do,  and  too  little  time  to  do  it 
in,  to  waste  the  moments  in  fondness ;  so  go  back 
to  your  seat  now,  and  listen."  And  then  he  went 
on  again  as  follows :  "  But  not  only  do  we  get  to 
love  every  object  of  beauty  in  the  world  about 
us,"  said  he,  "  as  if  it  were  really  a  friend  and 
benefactor  to  us,  and  to  hate  to  see  it  injured  or 
destroyed,  as  well  as  to  desire  and  long  for  the 
renewed  possession  of  it,  but  we  get  to  love  also 
the  varied  and  diiferent  aspects  of  nature  in  the 
same  manner.  We  love,  for  example,  the  blush 
ing  beauty  of  the  young  virgin  morn,  as  she  steps 
from  out  her  bed  of  night,  and  parts  the  crimson 
curtains  of  her  oriel  window  to  peep  at  the  wak 
ing  world  once  more ;  and  we  love  the  fiery  glory 
of  the  sunset,  too,  when  the  great  orb  of  day  seems 
to  die  with  all  the  peaceful  grandeur  of  a  martyr 
amid  the  lurid  flames,  or  lies  like  some  mighty 
hero  welling  his  blood  upon  the  earth,  as  he  gives 
his  last  look  of  glory  to  the  world.  We  love  the 
golden  fervor  of  the  noon,  and  the  silver  serenity 
of  the  night.  We  love  the  maniac  rage  of  the 
foaming  and  howling  storm,  and  the  fine,  thought 
ful  calm  of  the  forest.  We  love  the  bustle  of  the 
work-day  world  of  enterprise,  when  the  city  seems 
to  roar  like  the  sea  with  the  chafing  tide  of  hu 
man  passion ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  we  love 


A    PEEP  INTO    THE    HEART.  447 

the  lull  of  the  Sabbath,  when  the  strife  of  human 
greed  ceases  for  a  while,  and  the  earth  is  quiet  as 
when  the  flocks  are  folded  for  the  night.  We 
love  the  pageantry  of  travel,  and  the  long  pro 
cession  of  new  countries  and  strange  people. 
We  also  love  the  cosy  rest  and  welcome  looks  of 
the  old  familiar  faces  at  home.  We  love  the 
tenderness  and  freshness  of  the  new  green  of  the 
earth  at  spring-time,  when  the  orchards  are  all 
silvered  over  with  their  fleecy  clouds  of  fruit- 
blossoms,  and  the  hedges  are  white  as  wedding- 
favors,  and  redolent  as  new-mown  hay  with  the 
flowering  hawthorn,  even  as  we  love  the  rich 
ripe  glories  of  the  summer,  when  the  air  is  seen 
to  tremble  above  the  ground  with  the  heat  of  the 
soil,  and  the  rivers  look  cool  as  moonbeams  in  the 
blaze  of  day — when  the  crops  undulate  like  a  sea  of 
gold  upon  the  land — when  the  bean-flower  and  the 
clover  make  the  fields  as  fragrant  as  gardens,  and 
the  birds  are  all  merry  as  children  to  find  that 
the  earth's  feast  is  spread.  We  love,  too,  in  its 
turn,  the  mellower  beauties  of  the  autumn,  when 
the  world  is  gay  as  a  painter's  palette  with  the 
many  colors  of  the  woods,  the  orchards,  and  the 
plains — when  the  heads  of  the  reapers  are  seen 
above  each  golden  pool  of  corn — when  the  trees 
in  the  lanes  have  blades  of  wheat  dangling  from 
their  topmost  boughs,  and  the  jangling  bells  of 
the  harvest  team  sound  cheerful  as  a  marriage 
chime  as  the  high-piled  load  of  sheaves  goes  top 
pling  along  the  road.  We  love  the  broad  crystal 
pavement  of  the  sea  as  it  lies  smooth  as  a  mirror 
encupped  in  the  vast  silver  chalice  of  the  horizon, 
and  hived  in  by  the  grand  pellucid  cupola  of  the 
skies,  even  as  we  love  the  childish  petulance  of 
the  streamlet,  with  the  broken  shadow  of  its  rustic 
bridge  quivering  into  long  zigzag  lines  as  the  tiny 
tide  sweeps  under  it,  dimpled  over  with  many  an 


448  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

eddy,  and  crumpled  as  silver  tissue  into  many  a 
curved  and  sparkling  line.  We  love  the  ruined 
castle,  with  the  weeds  and  brambles  growing  in 
the  old  banqueting  hall;  and  we  love  the  neat 
cottage,  with  the  roses  dangling  like  balls  of  flo 
ral  fruit  over  the  doorway.  We  love  the  broad 
expanse  of  nature  as  seen  from  the  mountain-top 
when  the  earth  seems  like  a  little  toy  world  at 
our  feet,  and  the  far-stretching  sight  gives  one  a 
faint  sense  of  Omnipresence  in  the  vastness  of  its 
range ;  and  we  love  the  little  picturesque  bits  of 
nature,  like  the  gipsy  camp  with  cave-like  tent 
pitched  in  some  sequestered  lane,  and  the  cal 
dron  swinging  over  the  fire  on  its  trivet  of  boughs, 
with  the  olive-faced  crone  in  her  tattered  red 
cloak,  filmed  over  with  the  white  smoke,  crouched 
beside  it,  and  the  old  gray,  shock-coated  horse 
cropping  the  grass  by  the  bank-side,  and  all 
arched  in  by  the  green  vault  of  overhanging  foli 
age,  through  which  the  sunlight  leaks  in  many 
a  big  lustrous  drop,  till  the  brown  pathway  is 
dappled  as  a  deer's  back  with  the  mixture  of 
light  and  shade.  Farther,  we  love  the  rosy  inno 
cence  and  toddling  helplessness  of  childhood  even 
as  we  love  the  silver  beauty  of  hale  old  age. 
Then,  again,  we  love  the  birds  of  the  wood  and 
the  grove — the  little  lark  at  morning,  that  we  can 
hardly  see  in  the  dazzling  of  the  sunbeam,  trilling 
forth  a  very  rapture  of  song  as  it  lies  bellied  on 
the  air  with  the  warm  sun  shining  on  its  back, 
and  the  nightingale  in  the  night  waking  the  still 
ness  with  her  notes,  rich  and  resonant  as  an  organ, 
and  pleasant  as  the  midnight  music  which  reminds 
us  of  the  Savior's  birth.  So  again,  too,  we  love 
the  fine  old  ancestral  air  there  is  about  the  clamor 
of  the  rooks,  the  spectral-like  whoop  of  the  night- 
owl,  the  chime -like  ding-dong  of  the  cuckoo's 
ubiquitous  cry,  marking  the  first  quarter  of  the 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEAET.          449 

year,  and  the  sharp  twitter  of  the  black-backed 
swallows  as  they  flash  to  and  fro  in  fine  forked 
flight  over  the  surface  of  the  pool  before  the 
thunder-cloud  bursts  upon  the  earth.  We  love 
the  young  lambs,  too,  with  their  white  curly 
backs  and  baby-like  bleat,  as  they  run  to  the  ewe 
and  butt  their  heads  against  her  side,  or  as  they 
capriole  for  very  gladness  in  the  air ;  the  hand 
some  square  forms  of  the  brown  cattle,  with  their 
eyes  as  meek  as  slaves,  and  breath  as  sweet  as  vi 
olets  ;  the  patient  old  jackass,  with  his  downcast 
head  and  black  velvety  snout,  and  the  fine  Stoic 
resignation  with  which  he  bears  the  jibes  and 
cuffs  of  the  world ;  and  the  faithful  dog,  whose 
tail  is  another  tongue,  and  who  can  read  his  mas 
ter's  looks  as  we  do  books.  Indeed  and  indeed, 
lad,  there  is  not  a  source  of  pleasure  in  the  wide 
range  of  animate  and  inanimate  nature  that  is  not 
a  source  of  love  also." 

"  But,  uncle,"  asked  the  little  pupil,  "  you  say 
love  comes  of  gratitude ;  are  we  then  grateful  to 
what  you  would  call  the  stocks  and  stones  about 
us,  which  carft  help  pleasing  us  whenever  we  find 
pleasure  in  them  ?" 

"  Yes,  Ben,"  answered  the  teacher,  "  we  are  as 
grateful,  in  a  certain  degree,  to  them  as  we  are  to 
the  mother  who  nurses  us.  Such  is  the  abound 
ing  spirit  of  thankfulness  implanted  in  the  human 
breast,  that  there  is  not  an  object,  however  minute 
and  however  senseless,  which  delights  us,  that 
does  not  also  inspire  us  with  a  sense  of  gratitude 
and  ultimate  love  for  it." 

"  Well,  do  you  know  I  thought,  uncle,"  contin 
ued  the  boy,  "  that  we  were  only  grateful  to  per 
sons  for  favors  ?" 

"  Ay,  lad,  you  thought  so  because  the  innate 
gratitude  of  our  nature,"  the  other  made  answer, 
"  is  then  intensified  by  the  consciousness  that  the 
FF 


450  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

favor  conferred  upon  us  is  in  such  cases  a  volun 
tary  act.  We  know  that  the  human  being  might 
have  refrained  from  benefiting  or  pleasing  us  had 
he  so  willed,  and  therefore  we  feel  inordinately 
thankful  for  the  grace  he  has  done  us.  But,  Ben, 
you  forget,  my  boy,  that  I  have  shown  you  that 
all  our  pleasures,  whether  sensual,  intellectual,  or 
moral  ones,  are  really  favors  after  all,  since  they 
were  in  no  way  necessary  for  the  purpose  of  con 
tinued  existence,  nor  yet  for  the  purposes  of  in 
telligence  and  reasoning  either ;  and  these  are  fa 
vors  conferred,  too,  I'emember,  by  a  Being  who 
might  have  willed  othenoise.  It  would  seem, 
therefore,  as  if  it  was  an  intuitive  sense  of  this 
point  that  makes  even  the  child  and  the  savage 
love  the  flowers,  and  the  brook-side,  and  the  woods 
(and,  therefore,  feel  the  same  instinctive  gratitude 
for  them)  as  naturally  as  the  wisest  and  kindliest 
philosopher." 

"  Oh,  then,  I  see  !"  exclaimed  the  little  fellow, 
thoughtfully ;  "  the  love  of  nature  is  but  the  love 
of  God,  after  all." 

"  It  is,  my  son,  the  love  of  the  beauty  and  good 
ness  of  the  Creator — the  reverting  of  the  mind  to 
the  one  Great  Cause  of  all  our  enjoyments,  and  the 
natural  intuition  we  have  that  such  enjoyments 
are  pure  favors  or  acts  of  grace  to  man ;  and  it  is 
the  consequent  expression  of  our  thankfulness  for 
the  bounty  of  the  gift  which  inspires,  in  its  turn, 
a  devout  love  of  the  All-bounteous  Giver." 

"  I  can  only  say  thank  you  both  once  more," 
murmured  the  boy,  as  he  pondered  over  the  high 
and  holy  thoughts  that  the  old  man  had  excised 
in  his  soul. 

"  But  the  world  within  us,  Ben — the  world  of 
human  thought  and  action,  has  as  many  sources  of 
love  as  even  the  world  of  animate  and  inanimate 
nature  itself.  We  love  play,  for  instance,  and  we 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEAKT.          451 

love  work  too,  if  we  will  but  put  our  heart  into 
the  work — we  love  exercise,  and  we  love  rest — 
we  love  humor,  and  we  love  reason — we  love  sci 
ence,  and  we  love  poetry — we  love  the  flash  of 
wit,  and  we  love  the  solemnity  of  meditation — we 
love  the  ideal  world  of  books,  and  we  love  the 
bright  glimpses  of  that  world  which  we  get  in 
works  of  art — we  love  the  romance  of  adventure, 
and  we  love  the  matter-of-fact  of  history — we  love 
the  bright-colored  imagination  of  fiction,  and  we 
love  the  diamond  purity  and  hardness  of  truth. 
Farther,  if  we  love  the  sweet  infection  of  cheer 
fulness,  we  love  also  the  sober  gloom  and  pen- 
siveness  of  melancholy — if  we  love  honor,  we  love 
humbleness  also — if  we  have  an  innate  love  of 
power,  weakness  can,  on  the  other  hand,  win  our 
love  as  well ;  and  if  we  have  a  savage  liking  for 
pomp  and  splendor,  we  have,  at  the  same  time, 
an  equally  natural  affection  for  the  unadorned  el 
egance  of  simplicity.  Again,  we  love  praise,  and 
we  love  good  counsel,  even  though  it  have  a  touch 
of  kindly  blame  about  it — we  love  the  strict  equi 
ty  of  justice,  and  we  love  the  blessed  indulgence 
of  mercy — we  love  the  lavish  benevolence  of  char 
ity,  and  we  love,  too,  the  wise  thrift  of  frugality— 
we  love  wealth,  and  yet  we  can  love  the  poor — 
we  love  chastity,  and  yet  we  have  love  enough  to 
pity  the  frail — we  love  health,  and  we  love  the 
afflicted  and  the  sick — we  love  the  martyr,  and 
the  hero,  and  the  great  artist ;  the  philanthropist, 
the  just  judge,  and  the  wise  governor.  We  love 
our  parents  and  our  children,  our  kindred  and  our 
playmates,  our  friends  and  benefactors,  our  neigh 
bors  and  our  countrymen ;  ay,  and  we  have  hearts 
large  and  human  enough  to  love  the  whole  human 
race  as  well.  And  over  and  above  all,  we  love 
the  source  of  all  love :  the  one  great  Friend,  and 
Benefactor,  and  Father  to  us — Him  who  gave  us 


452  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

the  very  power  to  comprehend  his  wisdom  and 
his  goodness,  and  the  high  faculty  to  love  and 
adore  Him  for  it." 

The  uncle  sat  mute  for  a  while  after  the  com 
pletion  of  the  paean,  and  he  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  hand  as  he  remained  rapt  in  the  beauty  of  his 
own  theme. 

"  You  now  see,  Ben,"  at  length  he  resumed, 
"  that  if  the  brain  of  man  can  compass  the  entire 
universe,  at  least  the  heart  has  an  equally  compre 
hensive  power,  and  that  the  well-spring  of  man's 
love  is  as  inexhaustible  as  the  objects  upon  which 
it  may  be  shed  are  infinite." 

"I  see  it  is,  uncle,"  answered  the  little  man, 
thoughtfully,  "and  most  wonderful  it  seems  to 
me  that  it  should  be  so." 

"  Now,  lad,  of  this  same  love,"  went  on  the  old 
man,  "  there  are  several  delicate  gradations  and 
shades — so  delicate,  indeed,  that  they  are  as  diffi 
cult  to  fix  in  words  as  it  would  be  to  give  a  name 
to  each  different  hair's-breadth  of  the  rainbow 
bands  of  interblending  hues.  However,  mankind 
has  invented  a  few  such  terms,  and  these  may  be 
said  to  indicate  the  more  marked  tones  in  what 
may  be  called  the  chromatic  scale  of  love  and  af 
fection.  Starting,  then,  from  utter  indifference, 
which  is  the  zero  in  the  graduated  scale,  we  have 
first  the  feeling  of  Respect,  which  is  that  faint  ad 
miration  and  liking  that  we  have  for  a  person  who 
offends  no  natural  or  moral  law,  who  breaks  no 
tie  of  kindred,  who  does  no  one  any  wrong,  re 
fuses  no  just  demand,  is  distinguished  for  no  par 
ticular  faculty,  and  marked  by  no  particular  vice. 
Such  a  person  is  what  the  world  delights  in  so 
much,  my  lad ;  'a  respectable  man ;'  an  inoffensive 
creature,  who,  if  he  does  no  good,  at  least  does  no 
harm ;  for  a  human  being,  like  a  poem  or  a  pic 
ture,  or  any  other  work  of  art  which  requires  high 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEART.          453 

powers  to  make  it  excellent,  is  just  respectable 
when  violating  no  rule  of  good  taste,  propriety, 
or  decency." 

"  And  what  comes  after  respect,  uncle  ?"  in 
quired  the  youth. 

"  Why,  Regard,  lad,"  answered  the  other ;  "  and 
this,  as  I  have  before  said,  is  merely  that  sweet 
and  tender  affection  of  our  nature  which  leads  us 
to  look  back  with  ideal  delight  upon  some  object 
that  has  really  delighted  us.  It  is  simply  pleas 
urable  contemplation  —  the  fond  disposition  we 
have  to  linger  over  and  revert  to  any  object  which 
has  interested  us.  This  is  the  feeling  we  enter 
tain  for  our  neighbors  and  old  schoolfellows,  and 
even  for  the  suffering,  the  miserable,  and  the  af 
flicted,  as  well  as  for  the  helplessness  of  age,  wheth 
er  it  be  that  of  infancy  or  senility." 

"  Well,  and  after  regard,  uncle  ?"  said  little 
Ben. 

"  Comes  Esteem,  my  boy  —  not  as  a  necessary 
consequence,  but  in  mere  orderly  succession,"  re 
plied  the  elder  one ;  "  esteem,  which  is  the  affec 
tion  we  have  for  whatever  is  of  service  to  us  or 
others,  and  is  difficult  to  obtain.  It  must  be  dif 
ficult  to  obtain,  Ben,  or  we  should  set  no  store  or 
value  upon  the  object ;  and  it  must  be  of  service, 
or  we  should  have  no  regard  or  care  for  it.  Hence 
you  will  see,  my  lad,  that  what  is  called  esteem  is 
simply  a  feeling  of  regard  with  a  sense  of  value 
attached  to  it,  and  this,  therefore,  makes  us  loth 
to  lose  what  is  estimable.  This  is  the  affection 
which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  friendship,  since  a 
true  friend  is  one  that  never  hesitates  to  serve  us, 
and  whose  acquaintance  we  can  never  afford  to 
lose.  For  a  man  to  be  really  estimable  there  must 
be  a  certain  amount  of  what  is  called  ^wortW 
about  him ;  that  is  to  say,  of  qualities  that  are 
more  or  less  valued  and  prized,  in  the  mental  and 


454  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

moral  appraisement  of  the  world,  as  being  more 
or  less  serviceable  to  us,  and  which  are  not  com 
monly  met  with  in  the  ordinary  run  of  humanity. 
Thus,  if  we  have  merely  a  respect  for  that  mental 
and  moral  negation  —  the  respectable  man  —  we 
have  a  positive  esteem  for  the  man  of  talent,  and 
even  the  man  of  skill,  as  well  as  for  the  man  of 
honor  and  the  man  of  generosity.  If  we  respect 
the  just  judge,  we  have  an  esteem  for  the  lenient 
one.  If  we  have  a  respect  for  the  born  poor,  we 
have  an  esteem  for  those  who  are  the  architects 
of  their  own  fortune." 

"You've  done  esteem  now,  haven't  you,  un 
cle  ?"  asked  the  little  fellow,  growing  pleased  with 
the  rapid  succession ;  "  and  then  what  have  we  ?" 

"Why,  Admiration  is  the  next  soft  tone  in  the 
ascending  scale  of  the  tender  passion,"  was  the  re 
ply,  "  and  this  is  simply  the  intense  regard  which 
objects  of  wonder  and  beauty  combined  force 
upon  the  soul,  so  that  we  are  constrained  to  lin 
ger  over  and  dwell  upon  the  contemplation  of 
the  extraordinary  charms  which  have,  as  it  were, 
transfixed  us.  Admiration  is  the  highest  pleasur 
able  contemplation  interblent  with  the  most  love 
ly  marvelment.  Hence,  to  excite  this  feeling,  two 
essentials  must  cohere  in  the  object;  the  one  is, 
that  it  must  be  an  object  of  loveliness,  and  the 
other,  that  the  loveliness  must  be  so  inordinate  as 
to  amaze  us,  for  without  these  twin  qualities  no 
object  can  be  really  admirable.  It  must  seem 
extraordinarily  beautiful,  pleasing,  or  good  to  us, 
in  order  to  set  us  marveling  in  the  midst  of  our 
enjoyment  at  the  very  rarity  or  uncommonness 
of  the  charms;  for  it  is  this  delicious  marvelment, 
Ben — this  lovely  wandering,  and  yet  lingering  of 
the  thoughts  over  an  object  of  high  beauty,  which 
makes  up  the  state  of  mind  that  is  usually  called 
'rapture,'  and  which  is,  as  it  were,  a  delightful 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEART.          455 

swooning— the  sweet  waking  trance  of  the  heart 
and  intellect.  Hence  we  do  not  admire  the  com 
monplace  qualities  of  mere  respectability  any  more 
than  we  admire  the  simply  estimable  qualities  of 
talent  and  worth ;  but  we  do  admire  genius,  and 
heroism,  and  sacrifice,  and  high  personal  and  ar 
tistic  beauty,  because  they  are  the  transcendent 
rarities,  the  supreme  excellences  of  the  world 
about  us." 

"  Go  on,  uncle,"  the  boy  exclaimed,  as  the  old 
man  came  to  another  pause.  "  What  follows  ad 
miration  ?" 

"Love,  Ben,"  the  godfather  made  answer; 
"  love,  of  which  we  have  said  so  much,  and  of 
which  there  are  volumes  still  to  say,  if  there  were 
but  time  for  the  saying  of  it,  Love  follows  ad 
miration  not  only  in  regular  succession,  but  gen 
erally  as  a  natural  sequence  too ;  for  admiration 
is  but  the  first  transient  gleam  of  love,  and  love 
only  the  steady  and  enduring  flame  of  long-con 
tinued  and  permanent  admiration.  And  it  is  this 
persistence  of  the  emotion  which  develops  the  two 
other  tender  elements  that  go  to  make  up  the  one 
composite  passion.  It  develops  first  a  disposition 
not  only  to  guard  and  protect  the  object  of  our 
love  against  injury,  but  also  to  cherish  and  benefit 
it  in  every  way  we  can ;  and,  secondly,  it  develops 
a  desire  to  possess  it,  to  remain  forever  present 
with  it— forever  contemplating  and  forever  ad 
miring  and  enjoying  it — forever  guarding  it,  and 
forever  cherishing,  benefiting,  and  gladdening  it. 
This  is  what  is  termed  '  true  love,'  lad ;  the  love 
of  swains,  as  well  as  the  love  of  children  for  their 
parents,  and  the  love  of  parents  for  their  children ; 
the  love  of  warm  friendship,  the  love  of  high  art, 
and  the  love  of  moral  excellence,  as  well  as  the 
love  of  natural  beauty  and  the  love  of  God  also. 
Next  in  the  scale  we  have — " 


456  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

"  What,  uncle  ?"  interjected  the  boy,  determined 
not  to  be  balked  of  his  question. 

"  Honor,  lad,"  proceeded  Uncle  Ben.  "  Now 
honor  is  the  admiration  that  we  feel  for  any  su 
perior  quality  or  excellence  which  develops  a 
slight  feeling  of  awe  rather  than  love  on  the  con 
templation  of  it,  so  that  the  emotion  wants  the 
tenderness  of  admiring  regard  to  cordialize  it,  and 
partakes  rather  of  the  modesty  of  wondrous  re 
spect.  We  honor  our  superiors;  we  honor  the 
great,  the  wise,  the  powerful,  the  brave,  the  no 
ble,  the  illustrious,  and  even  our  parents  too.  In 
deed,  we  honor  whatsoever  impresses  us  at  once 
with  a  sense  of  its  superiority  and  our  own  inferi 
ority.  Hence  there  is  always  a  certain  submissive- 
ness  and  deference  in  the  outward  display  of  this 
feeling.  It  is  the  worldly  worship  that  humility 
offers  up  to  worldly  pride  and  worldly  dignity. 
The  servant  honors  the  master,  the  subject  the 
sovereign,  the  world  the  conqueror,  even  as  the  lit 
tle  child  honors  its  father,  while  it  rather  loves  the 
mother  that  has  tended,  fostered,  and  fondled  it." 

"  Well,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  "  what  now  ?" 

"Why  now,  Ben,  we  have  but  to  touch  the 
highest  note  in  the  scale — the  highest  within  the 
pitch  and  compass  of  the  human  soul,  and  thus  to 
stand  upon  the  topmost  rung  of  the  Jacob's  lad 
der,  and  look  down  upon  the  earth  almost  from 
the  altitude  of  the  heavens  themselves." 

"  And  what  is  this  highest  note,  uncle  ?"  the 
little  fellow  inquired,  as  he  looked  up  in  the  old 
man's  face,  and  felt  almost  the  self-same  feeling 
stirring  his  heart. 

"  Veneration^  Ben,  veneration,"*  said  his  god- 

*  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  the  three  words  wonder,  venera 
tion,  and  honor  are  probably  all  etymologically  identical,  be 
ing  mere  dialectic  varieties  of  the  same  biliteral  radical,  wn, 
vn,  or  Jin ;  for  that  w  and  v  are  philologically  the  same,  the 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEAKT.          45T 

father ;  "  that  fine,  lofty,  and  composite  emotion 
which  is  made  up  of  the  profoundest  regard,  the 
highest  admiration,  the  purest  and  yet  warmest 
love,  and  the  most  intense  honor ;  that  reverent 
emotion  which  is  usually  associated  not  only  with 
so  strong  a  tendency  to  guard  and  protect  the 
object  of  it  from  injury  as  to  make  us  hold  it  ab 
solutely  sacred,  and  to  look  upon  the  desecration 
of  it  as  the  highest  crime,  but  also  with  so  fervent 
a  desire  to  be  forever  contemplating  and  admir 
ing  it,  and  forever  lingering  over  its  excellences 
and  its  marvelous  greatnesses  and  graces,  as  to 
lead  the  mind  to  find  its  highest  delight  in  the 
hymning  of  its  praises  and  the  heralding  of  its 
glories,  such  as  occurs  in  what  is  commonly  call 
ed  icorship.  Moreover,  there  is  at  the  same  time 
connected  with  the  emotion  so  deep  a  feeling  of 
that  submissiveness  which  is  the  outward  expres 
sion  of  honor,  that  an  instinctive  propensity  comes 
upon  the  soul  to  humble  ourselves  before  the  ven- 

Saxon  witan,  to  show,  and  the  Latin  wWere,  to  see — the  Sax 
on  ivin,  and  Latin  vinum,  and  a  host  of  similar  instances,  are 
indisputable  proof;  and  that  w  or  v  is  equivalent  to  the 
Greek  w,  the  Latin  vendere,  and  Greek  uvtofiai,  are  sufficient 
to  assure  us ;  even  as  &pa  and  hora,  w/zof  and  humerus,  prove 
that  the  Greek  w  and  w  are  equal  to  the  Latin  ho.  Wonder 
comes  to  us  directly  from  the  Saxon  wondrian;  veneration 
from  the  Latin  veneror ;  and  honor  (through  the  Latin)  from 
the  Greek  hvoq,  value  ;  and  the  fundamental  signification  is 
to  be  found  in  the  Welsh  gwyn,  i.  e.,  what  is  white,  fair ;  that 
which  affords  happiness,  and  which  is  well  known  now  to  be 
the  root  of  the  Latin  Venus  (Welsh  gwener}  and  venustas. 
The  etymological  trine,  therefore,  would  appear  to  have  sig 
nified  originally  the  emotion  begotten4>y  the  perception  of 
beauty,  and  to  have  had  the  idea  of  the  worship  which  the 
highest  beauty  inspires  afterward  superadded  by  the  Latins, 
and  so  to  stand  for  veneration ;  and  to  have  been  restricted 
to  the  mere  feeling  of  marvelment  by  the  Saxons,  and  thus 
to  mean  wonder ;  while  the  Greeks  appear  to  have  limited  it 
to  the  mere  value  or  high  esteem  in  which  excellence  is  al 
ways  held,  as  in  honor. 


453  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

erated  object,  and  to  bow  the  head  and  bend  the 
knee  in  its  presence,  and  that  from  a  sense  of  the 
very  overpoweringness  of  the  grandeur  of  it.  This 
sublime  feeling,  lad,  which  is  the  very  ecstasy  of 
the  human  spirit — the  most  intense,  the  most  ele 
vating,  and  yet  the  most  humbling — the  most  pu 
rifying,  and,  withal,  the  most  impassioned  and  fer 
vent  of  the  many  delights  of  which  human  nature 
is  susceptible,  is  generally  supposed  to  be  given 
only  to  the  Most  High.  But,  though  his  tran 
scendent  greatness  and  wondrous  excellence  ex 
alt  the  mind  to  the  very  highest  pitch  in  the  com 
pass  of  the  soul's  fervor,  nevertheless  supreme 
worldly  greatness  and  excellence  may  still  excite 
the  same  feeling,  though  in  an  infinitely  smaller 
degree.  True,  there  is  a  strong  tendency  among 
weak  and  zealot  natures  to  make  idols  of  men 
and  images,  to  bow  the  head  and  crook  the  knee 
to  some  golden  calf,  some  dressed-up  doll,  or  even 
to  the  purple  and  fine  linen  potentates  of  the  earth. 
But,  though  there  is  no  necessity,  lad,"  said  the 
honest  and  independent  old  Puritan,  "to  go  down 
on  the  belly  to  any  man  any  more  than  to  a  trump 
ery  toy,  or  to  slaver  over  any  bit  of  frail  humani 
ty  like  ourselves  with  '  your  mightiness'  or  '  your 
excellency,' '  your  reverence'  or  '  your  grace,'  any 
more  than  to  offer  up  our  worship  to  a  block  of 
ornate  wood  symbolical  of  a  saint,  nevertheless, 
to  the  true  magnates  of  human  kind — doing  the 
highest  good,  creating  the  highest  human  beauty, 
and  displaying  the  highest  genius  and  power  of 
soul — we  should  be  wanting  in  decency  and  grat 
itude  if  we  did  not  render  to  them  the  highest 
earthly  homage  of  which  the  human  heart  is  ca 
pable  ;  so  that,  always  remembering  that  even 
they  are  men  like  ourselves,  let  us  have  all  the 
manliness  of  men  rather  than  the  sycophantic  zeal 
of  zealots  in  our  worship,  but  still  be  ready  to  lift 


A   PEEP    INTO    THE    1IEAKT.  453 

the  hat  with  the  profoundest  respect,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  love  and  honor,  ay,  and  to  revere  the 
great  artists,  heroes,  and  martyrs,  as  well  as  the 
good  Samaritans  of  the  world.  And  now  that  the 
rosary  of  love  is  complete,"  concluded  the  old  man, 
"  do  you  tell  the  beads,  lad." 

"  First,"  said  little  Ben,  as  he  placed  the  finger 
of  one  hand  on  the  thumb  of  the  other,  so  as  to 
count  the  emotions  off  as  he  enumerated  them, 
"  there  is  respect,  then  comes  regard,  then  esteem, 
then  admiration,  then  love,  and  then — let  me  see, 
what  comes  next  ?  oh,  I  know  now ;  then  honor, 
and  lastly  veneration.  Seven  altogether ;  the  per 
fect  number  among  the  ancients,  wasn't  it,  uncle?" 

"  Yes,  boy,  the  number  of  the  days  of  the  week, 
and  the  number  of  the  planets,"  the  answer  ran. 
"  Now  that  is  the  ascending  scale  of  love  and  af 
fection,  Ben,  and  there  is  a  similar  descending 
scale  running  through  all  the  phases  of  hate, 
scorn,  contempt,  etc.,  but  this  I  must  leave  you 
to  spell  out  for  yourself." 

THE   SELFISH    EMOTIONS. 

"  Well,  uncle,  and  what  are  you  going  to  do 
now  ?  I  suppose  we  have  done  with  the  moral 
pleasures,  haven't  we  ?"  asked  the  lad,  quite  inno 
cently. 

" Done,  my  little  man!"  cried  the  teacher,  with 
all  the  emphasis  of  profound  astonishment ;  "why, 
we've  hardly  begun.  As  yet  we  have  taken  only 
a  broad  general  view  of  the  whole  class  of  feel 
ings  ;  we  have  merely  mapped  them  out,  in  the 
same  manner  as  from  a  mountain-top  we  see  a 
whole  tract  of  country  at  one  sweep  of  the  eye, 
and  we  must  now  come  down  from  our  height, 
and  examine  the  several  parts  of  the  view  rapidly 
in  detail.  There,  you  needn't  be  alarmed,  lad," 
added  the  old  man,  as  the  little  fellow  resumed 


460  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

his  paint-brush  and  began  painting  away  again ; 
"  I  shall  not  be  very  long  over  the  business." 

"  I'm  not  alarmed,  uncle,"  exclaimed  the  boy. 
"I  declare,  I  could  sit  and  listen  to  you  all  the 
day  long,  alone  with  you  here.  Yes,  uncle !"  he 
added,  by  way  of  intimating  to  the  old  man  that 
he  was  ready  for  his  teacher  to  begin. 

"  The  best  way,  my  little  man,"  proceeded  the 
godfather,  "  to  open  up  the  different  sources  of 
our  moral  pleasures  to  you,  is  to  commence  by 
telling  you  that  some  of  our  moral  feelings  are  of 
a  selfish  and  others  of  an  unselfish  character ;  that 
is  to  say,  we  experience  some  of  the  emotions 
when  any  good  or  evil  occurs  or  is  likely  to  occur 
to  ourselves,  and  some  of  them,  on  the  other  hand, 
when  such  good  or  evil  occurs  or  is  likely  to  oc 
cur  to  others.  As,  for  instance,  we  are  thrown 
into  a  lively  emotion  of  joy  when  any  sudden 
or  unexpected  piece  of  good  fortune  happens  to 
ourselves,  even  as  we  have  a  strong  feeling  of 
sympathy  or  pity  on  witnessing  the  misery  or 
afflictions  of  others." 

"  Oh,  I  see,  some  selfish  and  some  unselfish," 
said  the  youth,  half  to  himself,  as  he  proceeded  to 
scribble  the  words  down  as  a  "  mem"  on  the  side 
of  his  drawing  paper.  "  I  wonder  why  I  couldn't 
have  found  that  out  by  myself,  now  ?" 

"  Well,  lad,  I  shall  begin  with  a  brief  account 
of  the  selfish  emotions,"  went  on  the  tutor. 

"  Oh,  don't,  uncle ;  they're  beastly  things,  I 
know,"  cried  the  youngster,  "all  about  greedi 
ness,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Do  you  do  the  un 
selfish  ones  first,  unky,  dear,  for  they're  nice  and 
pretty  enough,  I  can  tell,  and  leave  the  nasty  self 
ish  lot  to  the  last." 

The  old  man  couldn't  help  laughing  at  the  boy's 
simplicity ;  however,  he  was  not  to  be  moved  from 
his  purpose,  so  he  proceeded  as  follows : 


A    PEEP    INTO    THE    HEART.  461 

"  The  selfish  emotions  of  our  nature  may  be  re 
garded  from  three  different  points  of  view,  Ben, 
and  hence  they  admit  of  being  grouped  into  three 
distinct  classes,  according  as  they  refer  to  the 
past,  the  present,  or  the  future ;  that  is  to  say, 
according  as  the  good  or  evil  which  is  the  object 
of  them  has  occurred  to  us,  either  at  some  remote 
period,  or  but  recently,  or  as  it  seems  likely  to 
occur  to  us  at  no  very  distant  date." 

"  I  see,"  exclaimed  the  youth  again,  as  he  made 
another  note  on  the  margin  of  his  sketch — "  past, 
present,  and  future.  Yes,  uncle ;  and  what  are 
the  feelings  that  you  say  refer  to  some  past  good 
or  evil?" 

"  Why,  lad,  the  very  feelings  of  love  and  grati 
tude,  and  all  the  rest  (with  their  opposites)  that 
we  have  been  but  recently  considering,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  Oh,  ay,  so  they  are,  of  course.  How  stupid 
of  me  not  to  know  that,  to  be  sure !"  exclaimed 
young  Ben,  still  talking  more  to  himself  than  to 
his  uncle.  "I  see,  they  include  all  the  different 
kinds  of  love — love  of  parents,  children,  friends, 
benefactors,  neighbors,  schoolfellows,  and  so  on. 
Of  course  they  do ;  because  the  love  one  has  for 
them  must  be  on  account  of  some  good  that  they 
have  done  a  chap  some  time  before.  I  see !  I  see ! 
Yes,  uncle ;  and  which  are  the  feelings  that  arise 
— how  did  you  say  it?" 

"  That  arise  on  the  contemplation  of  some  good 
or  evil  that  is  likely  to  accrue  to  us  in  the  future," 
prompted  Uncle  Ben.  "  Why,  lad,  they  include 
not  only  the  emotions  of  hope  and  despair,  and 
the  sentiments  of  confidence  and  diffidence,  as 
well  as  all  the  various  feelings  that  arise  in  the 
bosom  when  we  calculate  the  chances  of  any 
object  of  our  desires  or  our  fears  happening  or 
not  happening  to  us,  but  they  include  also  all 


462  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

those  desires  and  fears  themselves ;  and  such  de 
sires  of  course  may  be  as  numerous  and  different 
as  are  the  different  objects  of  our  love.  Now  this 
feeling  of  mental  desire,  Ben,  is  the  yearning  of 
the  heart  to  possess  some  object  which  has  either 
previously  charmed  it,  or  which  it  fancies  is  likely 
to  do  so,  or  else  it  is  the  heart's  craving  for  some 
thing  which  it  wants,  not  for  its  own  sake  per 
haps,  but  as  the  means  of  compassing  some  de 
sired  end.  It  is  the  excitement  of  this  state  of 
desire,  physical  or  mental,  which  is  the  main 
spring  of  all  human  action,  Ben,  and  which  stirs 
men  to  move  their  limbs  in  quest  of  what  they 
want,  as  the  steam  stirs  that  wonderful  new  en 
gine  of  Savery's  to  fling  its  iron  arms  about.  The 
mental  desire  differs  only  from  the  physical  one 
in  the  fact  that  the  precedent  uneasiness,  which 
is  the  immediate  cause  of  the  action,  is  in  the 
physical  state  a  purely  physical  result,  as  in  the 
feeling  of  hunger,  and  the  consequent  desire  for 
food ;  whereas,  in  the  mental  desire,  the  uneasi 
ness  is  purely  an  uneasy  state  of  the  mind  rather 
than  of  the  body.  The  mind,  under  such  condi 
tions,  is  continually  thinking  of  the  object  which 
has  charmed  it,  and  which  is  to  charm  it  again, 
and  every  other  state  of  mind  therefore  becomes 
intolerable  to  it.  It  can  not  rest,  from  the  very 
dissatisfaction  that  is  on  it.  A  longing,  a  yearn 
ing,  a  craving  is  excited  in  the  soul  for  the  dar 
ling  object — the  same  as  in  the  stomach  when 
wanting  food — and  the  human  being  must  go 
seeking  what  it  wants ;  for  we  never  desire,  nor 
crave  for,  but  merely  wish  for,  those  pleasurable 
objects  which  there  is  no  probability  of  our  ever 
possessing ;  nor  do  we  go  in  quest  of  those  ob 
jects  of  our  desires,  on  the  other  hand,  that  there 
seems  no  likelihood  of  our  ever  attaining.  When, 
however,  it  appears  probable  that  they  will  come 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEART.          463 

to  our  hands  without  any  exertion  on  our  part, 
why,  then  we  sit  and  wait,  look  and  long,  expect 
and  hope  for  them,  with  more  or  less  patience  or 
impatience,  according  as  we  have  more  or  less  phi 
losophy,  or  according  as  the  result  appears  to 
grow  more  or  less  hopeful,  or  the  contrary." 

"How  nice,  plain,  and  clear  it  all  comes — 
doesn't  it,  uncle  ?"  said  the  youth. 

"Hope,*  lad,"  the  godfather  continued,  "is  one 

*  The  term  hope  comes  to  us  directly  from  the  Anglo-Sax 
on  verb  Hopian  (Dutch  Hoopen,  German  Hofferi),  the  affini 
ties  of  which  are  not  very  clear,  Webster  suggests  that  it 
may  be  connected  wtth  the  Latin  Capio ;  but  it  may  rather 
be  derived  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  Hebban,  to  heave,  to  lift 
up ;  for  the  Dutch  Hoopen  is  not  only  to  hope,  but  to  heap. 
Hence  hope  would  signify  literally  that  exaltation  or  lifting  up 
of  the  soul  which  comes  of  increased  belief  in  the  probability 
of  our  gaining  some  desired  end ;  and  it  is  consequently  the 
very  opposite  from  that  state  of  depression  or  dejection  of  spirit 
which  ensues  when  we  lose  faith  in  obtaining  some  wished- 
for  object,  and  which  is  usually  termed  Despondency.  The 
Welsh  term  for  hope  is  as  fine  a  word  as  there  is  in  any  lan 
guage  :  go-baith,  which  signifies  literally  seeing  darkly.  It  is 
a  pity  that  this  fine  old  tongue  is  not  more  studied  by  philol 
ogists  instead  of  merely  Saxon — as  by  Richardson  (who  has 
consequently  Avasted  a  life,  and  utterly  spoiled  a  grand  dic 
tionary  by  its  crude  and  trite  etymologies) — and  Latin  and 
Greek  only  by  others.  The  ancient  British  language,  in 
deed,  appears  to  underlie  the  whole  of  the  European  forms  of 
speech  ;  and  Owen  Pugh's  dictionary  is  really  a  noble  work. 
There  is  no  more  curious  and  startling  proof  of  the  antiquity 
of  the  old  British  tongue  than  the  fact  that  the  word  Pythag 
oras,  which  we  have  always  been  taught  to  regard  as  the 
name  of  the  earliest  Grecian  philosopher,  is  a  Welsh  word 
signifying  simply  "explanation  of  the  universe."  Hence  it 
is  plain  that  what  was  originally  merely  the  title  of  a  system 
of  philosophy  came  to  be  mistaken  for  the  name  of  the  phi 
losopher  propounding  it.  Nor  can  we  reject  this  notion  by 
assuming  that  the  Welsh  title  was  derived  from  the  Greek 
name,  and  so  came  to  have  its  present  signification,  since  the 
elements  of  the  Welsh  word  exist  in  the  Welsh  language. 
Now  it  is  evident  that  this  could  not  have  been  the  case  had 
the  term  been  derived  from  the  name,  since  in  our  word  Mac- 


464  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

of  the  sweetest,  the  most  sustaining  and  comfort 
ing  feelings  of  the  soul.  What  bread  is  to  the 
body,  hope  is  to  the  spirit — the  very  staff  of  life. 
What  oil  is  to  the  wound,  hope  is  to  the  bruised 
heart — the  anodyne  that  heals,  lulls,  and  soothes. 
It  is  the  one  tiny  bright  star  that  is  forever  raised 
a  little  above  the  earth,  and  that  seems  to  beckon 
us  onward  with  its  light-tipped  wand,  as  it  guides 
us  along  our  darksome  way.  What  would  the 
life  of  man  be  without  this  blessed  feeling  of  hope, 
Ben  ?  what  but  one  long,  lingering  term  in  the 
condemned  cell  of  the  world,  if  we  only  knew  that 
we  came  into  existence  with  the  sentence  of  death 
already  drawn  out  and  clutched  in  our  baby-fist, 
and  felt  that  there  wras  really  no  hope  of  our  life 
being  spared  beyond  the  allotted  span  ? 

"  But  sweet  is  the  hope  of  the  mother,  as  her 
little  baby  bud  lies  nestled  in  her  lap,  and  she  sits 
and  spins  her  aspirations  for  her  little  one  into  the 
most  lustrous  threads  of  life,  weaving  her  wishes 
into  the  brightest  and  prettiest  golden  web  of  a 
fate  for  the  child.  How  fine,  too,  the  hope  of 
ardent,  beardless  manhood,  when  the  iron  mass 
of  circumstances  encompassing  our  lives  seems  as 
easy  to  be  cut  through  as  water !  how  grand  the 
hope  of  old  age ;  for,  even  though  the  force  and 
weight  of  this  same  iron  mass  may  have  sorely 

ada?nize,  neither  Mac  nor  Adam  are  to  be  found  in  the  English 
language  in  an  elementary  form  signifying  each  a  component 
part  of  the  complex  idea  which  is  expressed  by  the  compound 
term.  In  Welsh,  however,  pyth  signifies  universe,  life,  and 
corresponds  dialectically  with  the  Greek  /3iof,  and  the  Latin 
vita ;  while  agoras  is  explanation,  from  agori,  to  explain, 
which  again  is  the  equivalent  of  the  Greek  ayopt ww,  to  speak, 
a  term  found  partly  in  our  word  all-egory.  So  that  pyth- 
(universe)-a#oras  (explanation)  exactly  makes  up  the  com 
plex  idea,  and  hence  the  word  must  originally  have  been  of 
Welsh  extraction.  It  should  be  added  that  the  writer  of  this 
brief  encomium  on  the  Welsh  language  is  no  Welshman. 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEART.          4C5 

bruised  the  spirit  in  the  long  wrestle  with  it,  still 
the  soul  drinks  in  new  life  as  it  scents  the  morn 
ing  air  of  the  immortal  dawn,  and  sees,  in  the 
gloaming  of  the  coming  day,  a  long  bright  crack 
in  the  dark  clouds,  that  tells  of  the  wondrous 
splendor  of  the  time  to  come." 

And  as  the  devout  old  man  said  the  words,  he 
rose,  almost  unconsciously,  from  his  seat,  and  stood 
with  his  head  thrown  back,  looking  far  away  into 
the  skies. 

"  Every  different  form  of  life,  lad,"  went  on  the 
old  boy,  "  has  a  different  phase  of  hope  connected 
with  it.  There  is  the  hope  of  the  young  knight 
to  win  his  spurs — the  knights  of  those  chivalrous 
arts  which  are  forever  battling  for  beauty — as 
there  is  the  hope  of  the  young  poet  and  the  young 
artist.  Then  there  is  the  hope  of  the  merchant 
looking  for  his  ship ;  the  hope  of  the  sailor  watch 
ing  for  the  land ;  the  hope  of  the  maiden  awaiting 
her  lover ;  the  hope  of  the  little  child  yearning  for 
the  promised  treat ;  and  the  hope  of  the  school-boy 
as  he  counts  the  days  on  to  the  holidays ;  the  hope 
of  the  farmer,  as  he  gazes  up  at  the  moon,  and 
thinks  of  his  thirsting  crops ;  the  hope  of  the  pris 
oner,  as  he  sees  the  jury  leave  the  box  to  ponder 
over  their  verdict ;  the  hope  of  the  gambler  who 
has  staked  his  all,  while  he  watches  the  ball  spin 
round  and  round,  and  then  sees  it  tremble  and 
vacillate  about  the  ventured  number  upon  the 
board ;  and  the  hope  of  the  young  mother,  as  she 
looks  into  the  doctor's  eyes  while  he  leans  over 
the  cradle  of  her  little  one,  and  feels  its  fluttering 
pulse;  ay,  and  even  the  hope  of  the  murderer  him 
self,  as  he  sees  the  sails  unfurled,  and  the  water 
begin  to  move  past  the  hull  of  the  vessel  that  is 
to  bear  him  far  away." 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  nice  ?  I  think  I  like  this  even  bet 
ter  than  what  you  said  about  love,  uncle,"  ex- 
GG 


466  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

claimed  the  little  fellow,  tickled  with  the  pretti- 
ness  of  the  subject. 

"  Nor  should  we  ever  go  in  quest,  lad,  of  such 
objects  as  seem  to  be  within  our  own  reach,  or 
to  be  compassable  by  our  own  exertions,"  the 
godfather  proceeded,  "  had  we  not  the  same  hope 
of  success  as  when  we  stand  still,  and  watch  what 
the  tide,  in  the  great  sea  of  circumstances  about 
us,  will  throw  up  on  the  shore  at  our  feet.  Now 
it  is  this  hope  of  success,  or  rather  this  faith  in 
our  own  power  to  gain  the  end  we  desire,  that 
is  the  mainspring  and  sustaining  influence  of  all 
our  energies  while  at  work ;  for  if  there  was  no 
abiding  belief  in  our  soul  that  we  had  the  ability 
either  to  avert  or  overcome  the  obstacles  that  lie 
between  us  and  the  fulfillment  of  our  desires,  we 
should  either  sit  and  wait,  and  long  for  fortune 
to  waft  them  to  us,  or  else  we  should  merely  ut 
ter  a  vague  and  vain  wish  that  the  object  were 
in  our  possession,  without  having  the  heart  to 
hope  for  it,  or  the  energy  to  move  either  hand  or 
foot  in  quest  of  it.  Hope,  faith,  and  work  are 
the  three  great  elements  of  all  human  action,  lad, 
and  in  the  social  world  they  are  as  high  virtues 
as  even  faith,  hope,  and  charity  are  in  the  spiritual 
one.  We  couldn't  bestir  ourselves  even  to  pluck 
the  ripe  fruit  that  dangles  from  the  branch,  Ben, 
if  we  didn't  hope  to  succeed  in  our  endeavors  to 
tear  it  from  the  tree,  or  if  we  hadn't  faith  that 
our  muscles  would  answer  to  our  will,  and  that 
we  had  power  sufficient  to  climb  the  trunk  and 
wrest  it  from  the  bough.  Self-reliance,  Ben — that 
fine  manly  spirit^ of  honest  independence  which  is 
the  true  mark  of  every  great  nature — is  the  neces 
sary  consequence  of  faith  in  our  own  powers ;  and 
whatsoever  serves  to  foster  this,  and  to  overcome 
the  natural  doubt,  diffidence,  and  despondency  of 
our  spirit — whatsoever  tends  to  stimulate  us  with 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEART.          467 

hope  rather  than  to  deaden  and  cramp  our  ener 
gies  with  despair,  as  well  as  to  strengthen  us 
with  faith  in  ourselves  rather  than  to  take  all  the 
strength  out  of  us  by  doubt  of  our  own  abilities 
whatsoever  does  this,  lad,  goes  far  toward  mak 
ing  an  honest,  upright,  self-sustained  man  of  us, 
and  to  knock  every  atom  of  the  cringing  beggar 
or  the  filching  thief  out  of  our  constitution.  So 
I  say  to  you,  lad,  have  faith  in  yourself,  faith  in 
your  own  faculties,  faith  in  your  own  nature,  faith 
in  your  own  intelligence,  faith  in  the  dignity  and 
goodness  of  your  own  heart :  faith  without  assur 
ance,  mind !  be  full  of  hope,  but  lacking  the  pre 
sumption  of  sanguineness ;  and  then  rest  assured 
this  worldly  faith  of  yours  will  lead  to  the  same 
'  good  works'  as  even  Christian  faith  itself." 

"Yes,  I  will  have  this  faith,"  cried  the  boy, 
roused  by  the  fervor  of  the  old  man,  who  had 
spoken  with  all  the  ardor  of  his  own  independent 
Puritan  spirit.  "  I  will  have  faith  that  I  can  be 
all  that  you  tell  me,  and  oh,  may  my  after  life — " 

The  uncle  cut  short  the  aspiration  by  adding, 
"  May  it  be,  lad,  a  bright  instance  to  the  world 
of  a  deep  abiding  trust  in  that  fine  manly  mag 
nanimity  that  God  has  planted,  more  or  less,  in 
the  nature  of  every  one  of  us." 

The  little  fellow  hung  his  head,  and  the  words 
kept  humming  like  the  boom  of  a  big  cathedral 
bell  in  his  brain.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  by 
either  for  many  minutes.  The  uncle  sat  gazing  at 
the  lad  of  whom  he  had  such  high  hopes,  and 
watching  the  rain  of  the  prayer  sink  deep  into  the 
hot  and  thirsting  soil  of  his  young  heart ;  for  he 
knew  and  felt  he  had  touched  the  one  fine  chord 
of  young  Ben's  nature,  and  made  it  ring  again 
with  a  strain  that  he  would  never  forget  to  his 
dying  day. 

The  boy  only  kept  his  eye  fixed  vacantly  on  the 


468  YOUNG  BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

table,  and  sat  gnawing  the  end  of  the  pencil  as 
his  lips  moved  rapidly  with  the  unuttered  words 
of  some  inarticulate  speech. 

"  Well,  Ben,  we  must  jog  along,  for  we  have 
still  some  distance  to  travel,"  at  length  exclaimed 
the  uncle,  rousing  the  lad  out  of  the  trance  that 
was  on  him. 

"  Yes,  uncle,"  answered  the  little  fellow,  shak 
ing  himself  as  if  he  had  really  been  asleep. 

"Well,  lad,  it  would  be  idle  to  run  over  the 
several  objects  of  our  desires,"  resumed  the  teach 
er,  "since  they  are  but  the  yearnings  or  out- 
stretchings  of  the  different  forms  of  love,  of  which 
we  have  already  spoken  so  fully.  Suffice  it  to 
deal  only  with  those  objects  that  we  desire,  not 
directly  for  their  sake,  but  indirectly  as  the  means 
(as  I  said  before)  of  compassing  some  desired 
end." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  uncle,"  was  all  the 
little  fellow  said  in  return. 

"  Why,  boy,  we  desire  money,  not  for  money's 
sake,"  exclaimed  the  other — "  unless,  indeed,  we 
have  a  miser's  silly  greed  upon  us — but  merely 
because  it  is  one  of  the  chief  means  in  the  world 
of  procuring  what  we  want.  So,  again,  we  de 
light  in  the  exercise  of  our  own  power,  not  so 
much  because  we  find  a  special  pleasure  in  the  use 
of  it  (for  that,  if  carried  to  excess,  is  the  tyrant's 
depraved  delight,  and  the  ambitious  fool's  fond 
mania),  but  because  our  own  powers  are  what  we 
have  mainly  to  depend  upon  for  our  advancement 
in  life,  and  because  whatsoever  serves  to  give  us 
faith  in  them  confers  a  high  moral  delight  upon  us. 
Then  we  desire  liberty,  so  as  to  be  free  to  exercise 
those  powers  as  we  will — within,  of  course,  all  due 
bounds  of  propriety  and  respect ;  and  whatever 
acts  as  a  shackle  on  our  limbs  or  a  cord  upon  our 
will  not  only  galls  the  flesh,  but  chafes  and  sores 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEART.          469 

the  very  soul  itself;  it  sets  the  whole  nature  winc 
ing  and  smarting,  till  the  continued  irritation  of 
the  fetter  makes  it  grow  rebellious  even  to  fury, 
and  nerves  us  with  an  almost  giant  force  and  will 
to  burst  the  fretting  bondage.  Farther,  we  desire 
security — the  security  of  life  and  property  against 
wrong  and  outrage ;  for  without  this  all  our  la 
bor  and  our  care  would  be  useless,  since  it  would 
be  idle  to  desire  the  possession  of  any  object  that 
we  loved ;  idle  to  wish  to  guard  and  protect  it 
against  harm,  or  even  to  husband  it ;  idle  to  stir 
hand  or  foot  to  obtain  it,  if,  after  all  our  pains  to 
gain  it,  the  prize  could  be  wrested  from  us,  and 
our  industry  be  rendered  fruitless  at  the  very  mo 
ment  when  the  fruit  was  in  our  grasp.  Even  so, 
too,  we  desire  to  feel  secure  from  bodily  and  men 
tal  injury  as  well  as  from  moral  wrong.  More 
over,  we  desire  ease — not  only  ease  of  mind,  and 
worldly  ease,  or  a  sense  of  comparative  freedom 
from  worldly  care,  but  ease  in  the  work  which  we 
have  to  do,  in  order  to  make  our  way  in  life,  and 
hence  we  have  an  inveterate  hatred  of  whatever 
seems  to  obstruct  our  progress  by  increasing  the 
difficulties  in  our  way  through  the  world.  Thus 
we  find  a  special  moral  charm  even  in  our  own 
dexterity  and  expertness,  as  well  as  a  fine  moral 
satisfaction  when,  at  the  end  of  a  long  life  of  toil, 
we  have  a  sense  that  our  own  industry  and  thrift 
have  enabled  us  to  amass  sufficient  to  procure  for 
us  all  the  little  home-comforts  we  have  been  ac 
customed  to  for  the  rest  of  our  days,  and  that  we 
have  no  necessity  to  continue  laboring  when  the 
bones  are  aching,  and  the  force  spent  with  the 
heavy  load  of  years  on  the  back,  nor  yet  to  accept 
the  beggar's  dole  of  the  poor-house.  And  farther 
still,  we  desire  the  love  and  good  opinion  of  our 
neighbors,  not  only  for  its  own  sake,  and  because 
it  is  morally  pleasing  to  our  natures,  but  because 


470  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

it  is  another  mode  of  enabling  us  to  make  way  in 
the  world ;  for  when  we  look  round  and  see  how 
many  advance  by  favor,  and  how  few  by  special 
merit  of  their  own,  we  soon  get  to  understand 
that  almost  every  man's  lot  is  due  nearly  as  much 
to  the  exertions  and  interest  of  the  friends  he 
finds  and  makes  in  life,  as  it  is  due  to  his  own  en 
ergies,  talents,  and  rectitude.  Indeed,  so  much 
of  human  life  and  intercourse  must  depend  upon 
trust,  Ben,  that  not  to  be  trustworthy  is  to  sever 
our  own  individual  link  from  the  great  chain,  and 
so  to  put  an  end  to  our  being  dragged  on  by  the 
rest.  The  love  and  good  opinion  of  our  neigh 
bors,  therefore,  is  desirable,  boy,  not  only  because 
it  has  been  made  naturally  pleasant  for  us  to  re 
ceive,  but  because  it  is  essential  ere  we  can  be 
trusted,  and  ere  we  can  receive  any  favor  or  help 
in  our  work  from  those  about  us. 

"  Now  these,  Ben,  so  far  as  I  know,"  concluded 
the  old  man,  "  constitute  the  principal  objects 
that  we  desire,  not  directly,  for  their  own  sakes, 
but,  I  repeat,  indirectly,  as  means  to  an  end : 
money,  power,  liberty,  security,  ease,  and  good 
name.  But  every  one  of  these  sources  of  moral 
pleasure,  I  should  warn  you,  may  be  abused,  and 
transformed  into  the  ugliest  moral  vices.  We 
may  love  money,  for  example,  till  our  very  soul 
is  jaundiced  with  the  yellow  earth,  and  we  grow 
prone  to  go  down  on  our  bellies  in  worship  of 
each  golden  calf  in  the  land ;  we  may  love  it  till 
we  love  to  see  the  very  color  of  our  money  plas 
tered  over  our  walls  and  on  our  chairs,  our  tables 
and  sideboards,  our  lackeys'  backs,  our  coach-pan 
els,  and  our  own  bodies ;  till  even,  like  long-eared 
Midas  himself,  we  may  find  no  beauty  "in  the 
wide  world  but  in  the  precious  brazen  stuff.  Nev 
ertheless,  Ben,  money  is  not  the  c  filthy  lucre'  that 
your  sentimental  fools  delight  to  term  it,  but  only 


A    PEEP    INTO    THE    HEART.  471 

filthy  when  used  for  filthy  purposes.  Money  it 
self,  lad,  is  really  neither  a  good  nor  an  evil,  but 
simply  a  means,  and  therefore  capable  of  being 
made  either  good  or  evil  as  we  please,  according 
as  we  choose  to  apply  it  to  either  a  noble  or  a 
base  object.  So  with  power,  too  —  we  may  de 
light  in  the  exercise  of  it  till  we  get  to  feel  the 
same  proud  pleasure  in  driving  and  curbing  men, 
as  a  good  horseman  does  in  riding  a  fiery-natured 
steed,  and  in  seeing,  while  he  feels  perfectly  se 
cure  in  his  seat,  the  mettlesome  bit  of  blood  fret 
and  foam  at  the  mouth  from  the  continued  chaf 
ing  of  the  bit,  and  in  feeling  him  plunge  and  rear 
beneath  him  at  each  fresh  thrust  of  the  spur  or 
switch  of  the  whip.  Or,  if  we  have  a  zest  for  the 
luxury  of  tyranny,  we  may  still  find  a  morbid 
pleasure  in  the  sense  of  mastery,  from  the  very 
adulation  and  fawning  that  the  possession  of  pow 
er  begets  among  the  sycophants  and  serfs  about 
us.  The  hollow,  heartless  voices  of  the  world^s 
toadies  are  positive  music  in  the  ambitious  man's 
ear ;  for  the  man  of '  high  ambition,'  as  it  is  call 
ed,  finds  little  pleasure  in  the  exercise  of  power 
itself,  but  the  sweetest  possible  delight  in  the 
court  and  obeisance  that  the  world  pays  to  the 
powerful.  To  his  mean  soul,  the  noblest  sight  in 
life  is  not  a  man  standing  erect  as  his  Maker  made 
him,  upright  in  body  as  in  mind,  and  instinct  with 
all  the  fine,  unassuming  courage  of  true  dignity, 
but  crouching  on  his  knees  in  the  born  beggar's 
attitude  of  abasement  and  supplication.  Your 
'  lord  paramount'  delights  in  this,  because  the 
moral  hop-o'-my-thumb  feels  himself  sixpenny- 
worth  of  halfpence  higher  from  the  contrast. 

"  So,  too,  the  love  of  liberty  may  pass  into  the 
love  of  unrestricted  license ;  the  love  of  security 
of  possession  into  the  desire  for  absolute  monop 
oly  ;  the  love  of  ease  into  the  love  of  indolence ; 


472  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

and  even  the  love  of  a  good  name  into  the  most 
hateful  of  all  vices  —  that  wretched  social  hypoc 
risy  where  people  seek  to  get  credit  for  virtue 
when  they  are  really  moral  men  of  straw,  making 
the  moral  world  a  world  of  mere  trust  —  of  high 
characters  got  upon  tick  —  a  world  of  tick  godli 
ness,  tick  kindliness,  where  there  is  no  real  bullion 
worth,  but  all  flimsy  paper-virtue ;  where  men  un 
derstand  merely  '  the  representative  value'  of  re 
ligion,  philanthropy,  honor,  and  probity,  without 
having  any  of  the  sterling  metal  in  their  coffers ; 
where  ah1  is  lacker  and  varnish,  French  polish  and 
veneer,  rouge,  cosmetic,  and  dyes,  artificial  flow 
ers  and  wax  fruit,  pinchbeck  and  paste,  masquer 
ading  and  costuming,  peacocks'  feathers,  sheep's 
clothing,  and  lions'  skins.  Indeed,  Ben,  it  is  the 
easiest  possible  thing  to  '  affect  heart ;'  we  can  do 
this  with  even  a  paving-stone  in  our  bosoms ;  but 
we  can't  affect  brains,  lad,  without  having  some 
little  capital  of  intellect  to  trade  upon.  So  the 
social  hypocrites  and  Pharisees  of  our  day  are  al 
ways  overflowing  with  love  and  charity,  as  if  it 
were  the  very  milk  and  honey  of  their  hearts. 
Ah!  Ben,  Ben,  it  only  wants  a  halfpenny-worth 
of  oil  in  the  palm  to  be  able  to  play  the  Good  Sa 
maritan  any  day." 

As  the  old  man  sat  down  to  rest  for  a  while, 
young  Ben  said,  "  Now  you  have  finished  the 
pleasures  that  refer  to  the  past  and  the  future, 
and  are  going,  I  suppose,  to  do  those  which  refer 
to  the  present  ?" 

"  Ay,  lad,  we  have  reviewed  the  retrospective 
and  the  prospective  moral  emotions  of  our  nature," 
was  the  reply,  "  and  so,  of  course,  are  ready  to  pass 
on  to  what  are  called  the  immediate  feelings ;  and 
they  are  so  called  because  they  arise,  not  from  the 
contemplation  of  some  retrospective  or  prospect 
ive  good  or  evil,  but  simply  from  the  sense  of 


A   PEEP   INTO   THE   HEABT.  473 

some  present  benefit  or  injury  happening  imme 
diately  to  us." 

"  Yes, uncle,"  chimed  in  the  little  fellow;  "and 
what  are  the  names  of  some  of  these ;  for,  do  you 
know,  I  never  can  think  of  one  of  them  before  you 
mention  them  to  me.  Isn't  it  strange  ?" 

"Why,  there  are  the  emotions  of  Joy  and  /Sor 
row,  Ben,"  the  uncle  continued,  "with  the  conse 
quent  tempers  or  continuous  moods  of  mind  that 
they  often  leave  behind  them,  and  which  are  call 
ed  Cheerfulness  and  Melancholy,  even  as  there  is 
the  delight  or  sense  of  Complacency  that  we  feel 
upon  success,  together  with  the  emotion  of  what 
is  called  Exultation  at  our  triumph  over  the  dif 
ficulties  which  beset  us,  as  well  as  the  opposite 
emotion  of  Dejection,  or  sense  of  Discomfiture, 
that  we  experience  upon  Failure" 

Little  Ben  wriggled  away  at  the  roots  of  his 
hair  with  the  tip  of  the  pencil  in  his  hand,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "  Now  why  couldn't  I  have 
thought  of  that?" 

"  Well,  my  little  fellow,"  went  on  the  mentor, 
"  of  the  high  pleasure  of  Joy  and  the  intense  pain 
of  Sorrow  it  would  be  almost  idle  to  speak,  since 
they  are  obviously  pleasurable  and  painful  states 
of  mind.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  when  these  in 
tensely  vivid  feelings  are  rendered  even  more  in 
tensely  vivid  than  usual  by  the  inordinate  excite 
ment  of  some  surprise  or  shock  in  connection 
with  them,  they  have  often  been  known  not  only 
to  craze  the  mind,  but  even  to  deprive  the  person 
of  life  then  and  there.  However,  the  emotion,  or 
rather  the  temper — that  is  to  say,  the  prolonged 
and  gentle  excitement — of  cheerfulness  (as  well  as 
the  opposite  state  of  continuous  and  mild  depres 
sion  called  melancholy),  is  sufficiently  remarkable 
to  warrant  a  few  words.  It  is  the  characteristic 
of  many  of  those  peculiarly  vivid  states  of  mind 


474  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

which  are  called  emotions  or  passions,  that,  when 
the  first  wild  excitement  has  passed  away,  they 
leave  behind  them  a  permanent  and  kindred  state 
of  mind  of  so  subdued  a  form  that  it  is  neither  a 
transient  passion  nor  emotion,  but  merely  a  pro 
longed  temper  or  mood.  It  is,  as  it  were,  the 
trail  of  light  which  follows  the  meteor — the  faint 
hum  of  the  bell  after  the  bewildering  clang  of  the 
stroke  has  passed  away.  Thus  Wonder  is  the 
temper  or  mood  of  mind  that  Astonishment  or 
Surprise  often  subsides  into ;  so  Tetchiness  or 
Peevishness  is  the  disposition  that  is  prone  to 
follow  Anger,  and  general  Tenderness  the  conse 
quence  of  Love,  or  rather  it  is  the  mark  of  a  lov 
ing  nature,  even  as  Cheerfulness  is  the  temper  be 
gotten  by  Joy,  and  Melancholy  that  which  sets  in 
after  Sorrow.  Such  tempers,  however,  I  should 
tell  you,  are  often  the  effects  of  a  peculiar  state 
of  body  or  organization,  and  hence  the  persons 
so  constituted  are  habitually  cheerful,  tetchy,  or 
tender-hearted,  and  so  on ;  but  in  such  conditions 
the  mental  moods  are  the  forerunners  rather  than 
the  after-states  of  the  emotions  to  which  they  be 
long,  and  thus  tetchiness  becomes  a  sign  of  a  pre 
disposition  to  anger,  tenderness  to  love,  and  cheer 
fulness  to  joy,  even  as  a  melancholy  temperament 
(as  the  bodily  state  is  termed)  is  a  mark  of  prone- 
ness  to  grief." 

"  Oh,  then,  that's  what  we  mean  when  we  say 
'Father's  in  a  bad  temper  to-day,'  or  he's  in  a 
good  one,  as  it  may  happen,"  cried  the  little  man, 
delighted  with  the  burst  of  light.  "  I  see  now, 
it  means  merely  that  he's  ready  to  be  pleased  or 
vexed  with  whatever  occurs  at  home.  Of  course 
it  does.  But  go  on,  uncle,  please." 

"  Now,  my  boy,"  he  proceeded,  in  obedience  to 
the  request,  "  I  have  spoken  of  these  tempers  in 
order  to  point  out  to  you  how  much  of  human 


A    F.EEP    INTO    THE    HEART.  475 

happiness  depends  upon  them,  and  how  necessary 
it  is,  even  for  our  pleasure,  to  cultivate  the  good 
tempers  and  to  check  the  bad  ones ;  for  as  they 
are  permanent  states  of  more  or  less  vividness  of 
feeling,  and  our  emotions  themselves  are  only  the 
temporary  flash  of  human  passion,  they  of  course 
are  the  ugly,  rankling  festers,  and  the  others  only 
the  momentary  sharp  stings ;  the  one  the  long  dis 
ease,  and  the  other  the  instantaneous  wound ;  so 
that  he  who  wishes  to  live  a  happy  life  must  train 
himself  to  be  of  a  happy  and  cheerful  temper." 

"  Yes,  uncle,  it's  all  very  well  to  say  '  train  him 
self  to  be  of  a  cheerful  temper,' "  argued  the  young 
monkey ;  "  but  if,  as  you  say,  cheerfulness  comes 
either  from  joy,  or  from  what  you  call  a  certain 
state  of  the  body,  how  is  a  person  to  train  him 
self  to  be  continually  in  a  state  of  joy,  I  should 
like  to  know,  or  to  be  in  the  precise  state  of  body 
wanted  for  the  temper  ?  I've  always  heard  moth 
er  say  such  and  such  a  child  is  naturally  of  a  good 
temper,  so  that  I  should  think  our  tempers  are 
born  with  us." 

The  old  man  smiled  at  the  boy's  argument,  for 
he  was  so  stanch  an  advocate  for  liberty  of  con 
science  that  he  delighted  to  hear,  and,  indeed,  had 
always  let  the  lad  speak  his  thoughts  freely  to  him. 
"  True,  lad,"  he  said,  in  answer,  "  we  are  all  born 
with  what  the  doctors  call  a  certain  bodily  tem 
perament,*  and  this  naturally  begets  in  the  mind 

*  Physicians  enumerate  four  distinct  kinds  of  tempera 
ment  :  1.  The  sanguine  (or  hopeful).  2.  The  choleric  (or  pas 
sionate).  3.  The  melancholy  (or  sorrowful).  4.  The  phleg 
matic  (or  sluggish).  The  sanguine  temperament  is  generally 
marked  by  a  ruddy  complexion ;  the  choleric  and  melanchol 
ic  temperaments,  on  the  other  hand,  are  mostly  of  a  darker 
hue;  while  the  phlegmatic  is  more  or  less  white  or  pale. 
The  sanguine  appears  to  have  a  large  quantity  of  the  red 
coloring  matter  of  the  blood  in  the  system  ;  the  choleric  and 
melancholic  an  excess  of  bile ;  and  the  phlegmatic  an  excess 


4T6  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

a  particular  mood  or  temper  corresponding  with 
it — that  is  to  say,  a  proneness  or  predisposition 
for  particular  emotions  and  fancies.  And  it  is 
also  true,  lad,  that  the  emotion  of  joy  is  not  a 
voluntary  state  of  mind,  but  one  that  we  are  sud 
denly  thrown  into  by  certain  occurrences  in  the 
world  about  us.  Nevertheless,  we  can  train  our 
mind,  Ben,  to  certain  habits  of  thought ;  for  we 
can  educate  it  to  see  the  beauties  rather  than  the 
ugly  blemishes  of  things ;  we  can  render  it  quick 
to  detect  the  goodness,  and  slow  to  discover  the 
evil  in  life ;  we  can  bring  it,  by  long  schooling 
and  watching,  to  find  some  virtue  in  the  meanest 
thing,  and  to  prefer  the  contemplation  of  the  one 
little  bit  of  merit  to  the  crowd  of  vicious  defects 
in  even  the  basest  of  our  fellow-creatures.  This 
is  what  is  termed  looking  at  the  bright  side  of 
things ;  and  depend  upon  it,  Ben,  even  though 
the  new  moon  appears  but  a  dark  ball  to  us,  if 
we  could  but  regard  it  from  a  different  point  of 
view,  we  should  find  it  still  the  same  brilliant  bit 
of  chastity  as  we  see  it  when  the  bright  side  is 
turned  toward  our  eyes.  This  better  view  of 
things  is  what  is  styled  charity  in  religion ;  it  is 
poetry  in  art,  chivalry  in  the  code  of  honor,  ele 
gance  in  matters  of  taste,  and  politeness  in  mere 
manners.  Train  your  mind,  then,  lad,  to  see  only 
the  beauties,  the  nobilities,  the  virtues,  and  the 
graces  of  the  world,  and  to  turn  the  eye  from  the 
uglinesses,  meannesses,  and  clumsinesses  of  hu 
man  nature,  and  rest  assured,  Ben,  your  life  will 
be  one  continued  state  of  joy  and  cheerfulness. 

of  lymph,  or  water  in  the  system.  Or,  in  the  language  of 
Liebig's  theory  of  respiration,  we  may  say  that  the  iron  in  the 
blood  of  temperament  No.  1  is  highly  oxydized,  whereas  in 
that  of  temperaments  No.  2  and  3  it  is  insufficiently  oxyd 
ized,  while  in  temperament  No.  4  the  blood  has  but  little  iron 
in  it  to  oxydize. 


A   PEEP    INTO    THE   HEART.  477 

Close  your  ear,  too,  lad,  to  that  wretched  huckster 
and  attorney  creed  which  would  have  us  believe 
all  men  rogues  till  we  find  them  honest  people, 
and  be  you  at  least  gentleman  enough,  my  little 
man,  to  regard  all  men  as  gentlemen  till  you  find 
them  blackguards.  Do  this,  boy,  and  you  will  be 
sure  to  gather  a  goodly  company  of  gentlemen 
and  friends  about  you.  This  is  the  honest,  cheer 
ful  view  of  the  world,  lad,  and  we  have  Christ's 
own  word  for  it  that  the  hypocrites  are  the  men 
of '  sad  countenances.' " 

"Yes,  I  remember,  uncle,"  the  little  fellow 
chimed  in,  "He  says  so  in  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount :  '  Be  not,  as  the  hypocrites,  of  a  sad  coun 
tenance.'  " 

The  uncle  merely  nodded  and  said,  "  Ay,  lad, 
your  solemn-faced  Pharisee  is  as  different  from 
the  heavenly  bringers  of  the  '  glad-tidings'  of  the 
new  light  as  is  the  morose  old  screech-owl  from 
the  sweet-voiced  little  lark.  But,  Ben,  I  spoke  to 
you  before  of  the  sweet  infection  of  cheerfulness, 
and  I  now  wish  to  impress  upon  you  that  another 
special  reason  why  we  should  cultivate  a  good  and 
cheerful  temper  is  because  of  the  very  infectious- 
ness  of  happiness  itself.  Laughter  is  as  catching 
as  the  measles,  lad ;  and  rely  on  it,  as  the  sight  of 
one  person  yawning  will  set  the  jaws  of  a  whole 
company  on  the  stretch,  so  one  pleasant  smiling 
face  will  breed  a  hundred  other  smiles.  One 
cheerful  countenance  in  a  roomful  of  lugubrious 
ascetics  is  really  as  genial  as  a  bit  of  God's  own 
sunshine  falling  upon  a  sick  man's  bed ;  it  is  light 
and  life  too ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  continue  mor 
bid  with  that  in  the  room.  What  a  power  of 
diffusing  happiness,  then,  has  every  one  in  his  own 
heart,  if  he  will  but  train  himself  to  the  use  of  it ! 
Why,  if  we  had  the  wealth  of  Croesus,  Ben,  and 
the  charity  of  the  early  Christians  to  boot,  no 


478  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

alms  that  we  could  dispense  would  shed  half  so 
much  comfort  upon  those  about  us  as  we  have  it 
in  our  power  to  bestow,  if  we  will  but  look  at 
the  brightness  of  creation,  and  feel  and  enjoy  this 
brightness  in  our  heart  till  it  beams  again  in  our 
own  face,  and  thus  make  others  feel  and  enjoy  it 
in  their  hearts,  and  wear  it  in  their  faces  too. 

"  But  if  we  have  the  power  to  make  so  many 
happy  at  so  little  cost  by  the  mere  charm  of 
cheerfulness,"  he  went  on,  "  think,  on  the  other 
hand,  my  good  lad,  what  a  vast  amount  of  human 
misery  we  can  cause  by  giving  way  to  bad  temper. 
Indeed,  there  is  no  home  curse  like  this ;  nothing 
that  scares  the  household  gods  from  so  many 
hearths ;  for  there  is  no  tyranny  of  kings  or  em 
perors  so  hateful  or  so  cruel,  and  none  so  cowardly 
either,  as  that  of  the  home  despot ;  for  bad  tem 
per  wreaks  its  rage  only  011  the  helpless ;  ay,  and 
though  the  '  brief  madness'  is  supposed  to  be  un 
governable,  it  can — even  in  the  very  'tempest 
and  whirlwind,'  as  Shakspeare  calls  it,  of  its  pas 
sion — check  the  fury  that  is  on  it  in  an  instant 
so  as  to  be  civil  and  soft-spoken  enough  to  any 
whose  favor  it  dreads  to  lose.  So,  if  it  be  only 
to  avoid  the  terrible  devilry  of  a  bad  temper,  I 
say  again  to  you,  Ben,  cultivate  the  fine  homely 
Christianity  of  a  good  one." 

"  I  shall  remember  it,  you  may  depend,"  cried 
the  boy,  as  he  again  scribbled  something  down  on 
the  paper  before  him,  and  then  said,  "  That's  all 
you're  going  to  say  about  cheerfulness,  I  suppose, 
Uncle  Ben?" 

"  It  &,  my  child,"  the  reply  ran ;  "  and  now 
only  a  few  words  about  the  pleasures  of  success, 
and  the  emotion  of  Exultation,  and  then  we  have 
finished  with  the  selfish  emotions  of  our  nature." 

"  But  don't  you  remember,  uncle,  you  told  me 
a  lot  about  success  before  ?"  the  boy  reminded  hia 


A    PEEP    INTO    THE    HEART.  479 

godfather.  "  You  said,  when  you  were  speaking 
of  art,  that  we  found  a  pleasure  in  succeeding  even 
iu  the  smallest  things,  such  as  balancing  a  straw 
on  the  nose,  or  in  walking  along  the  cracks  in  the 
pavement,  or  indeed,  you  said,  in  hitting  any  mark 
we  aim  at.  I  recollect  it  well." 

"  I  recollect  it  too,  now,  boy,"  the  other  return 
ed,  "  and  I  think  I  said  at  the  time  that  the  pleas 
ure  we  felt  was  always  in  proportion  to  the  diffi 
culties  overcome,  and  that  it  was  simply  the  de 
light  that  all  people  experience  in  overcoming 
creat  difficulties  which  led  some  men  to  practice 
the  difficult  feats  of  dancing  on  the  back  of  horses 
at  full  gallop,  swallowing  swords,  and  drinking 
glasses  of  wine  while  balancing  themselves  on 
their  head  a-top  of  a  long  pole." 

"  Oh  yes,  so  you  did,  uncle,"  the  youth  chimed 
in,  "  for  I  remember  thinking  how  true  it  all  was 
when  you  said  so." 

"Well,  Ben,"  the  old  man  added,  "this  delight 
in  overcoming  difficulties  is  simply  the  emotion 
of  Exultation  ;  and  though  it  may  be  applied  to 
small  things,  it  is,  when  rightly  directed,  one  of 
the  finest  emotions  of  the  human  soul.  I  spoke  to 
you  of  the  grand  peaceful  conquests  of  Art  when 
I  was  discoursing  of  the  artist  power,  and  the  love 
we  had  for  it.  But  Science  has  its  peaceful  con 
quests  as  well  as  Art,  and  they  are  no  whit  less 
grand.  I  never  see  that  wonderful  steam-engine 
at  Avork  down  at  our  docks  but  I  think  what  must 
have  been  the  inventor's  feeling  when  he  first  be 
held  the  iron  giant  move  in  obedience  to  his  will; 
when  he  found  that  he  had  really  breathed  the 
breath  of  life  into  the  metallic  monster,  and  given 
it  all  the  action,  and  made  it  instinct  with  all  the 
power  of  the  Titan  race  of  old.  Surely  there  must 
have  been  a  smack  of  divinity  in  the  emotion  that 
then  stirred  his  spirit.  Or  did  he  tremble  at  the 


480  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

sight  of  his  own  handiwork  as  he  beheld  it  puls 
ing  like  an  iron  heart,  and  snorting  forth  its  steamy 
breath,  and  did  he  think  it  as  impious  as  Prome 
theus'  daring  when  he  stole  the  fire  from  heaven  ? 
Or  did  he  feel,  as  a  really  wise  man  would,  that 
it  was  God's  will,  and  not  his,  that  was  really 
stirring  the  mighty  engine  after  all,  and  that  he 
had  merely  learned  to  spell  out  another  passage  in 
the  great  poem  of  the  fitness  of  things  ?  I  can't 
say  how  your  old  uncle  would  have  felt  under  such 
circumstances,  Ben,  though  I  am  afraid  he  would 
have  been  weak  enough  to  have  burst  into  a  hymn 
of  self-glorification,  and  have  indulged  in  a  little 
bit  of  trumpery  self- worship.  But  I  hope  the  fine 
fellow  who  made  the  first  steam-engine  didn't  do 
this.  I  hope  he  merely  felt  the  supreme  delight 
of  conscious  power.  I  hope  he  felt,  as  he  sat  down 
before  the  mechanic  offspring  of  his  genius,  and 
watched  it  puff  and  gasp,  labor  and  heave,  as  it 
became  quick  with  the  force  within  it,  that  he  had 
the  power  of  a  giant  in  his  brain,  and  that  he  had 
used  it  like  a  sage ;  that  he  could  make  the  might 
iest  forces  in  the  world  as  docile  as  turnspit-dogs 
at  his  will ;  that  he  could  tame  even  the  fire  and 
the  flood  to  do  his  bidding ;  and  that  he  had  learn 
ed  how  to  make  arms  of  brass  and  sinews  of  iron 
do  the  mere  brute  labor  of  the  world  for  the  poor 
weary  laborers  among  mankind.  I  say  I  hope  he 
felt  merely  the  fine  glory  of  peaceful  triumph — 
the  high  honor  of  his  trumpetless  victory  over 
the  elements  of  nature ;  and  I  hope,  for  the  sake 
of  humanity,  he  didn't  mentally  fall  to  clapping 
his  own  hands  at  his  own  conceited  self,  or  blow 
ing  an  ideal  trumpet  into  his  own  ear,  and  prov 
ing  how  small  a  man  he  really  was  by  fancying 
himself  a  really  great  one ;  for  this,  Ben,  is  the 
weakness  of  exultation,  and  not  the  grandeur  of 
it.  The  exultation  of  high  genius  is  not  the  ex- 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEART.          4S1 

ultation  of  the  hero,  not  the  triumph  of  man  over 
man,  but  the  triumph  of  mind  over  matter.  It  is 
the  conquest  of  circumstances  that  stirs  the  intel 
lectual  hero's  heart,  the  mastery  of  difficulties  that 
sends  a  thrill  of  glory  through  his  nerves ;  and  as 
there  is  no  power  on  the  earth  so  great  as  that 
of  genius,  so  is  there  no  exultation  so  pure  and  so 
noble  as  that  which  true  genius  feels  when  it  has 
done  its  work,  and  wants  no  other  reward  but  the 
mere  satisfaction  of  the  work  itself — the  high 
sense  of  mastery  unalloyed  with  the  degradation 
of  slavery." 

THE    UNSELFISH    EMOTIONS. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  now,  uncle  ?"  ask 
ed  the  little  fellow,  directly  he  saw  that  the  old 
man  had  finished  another  portion  of  his  theme. 

"  Why,  now  we  come  to  the  imselfish  emotions 
of  human  nature,"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"  I  think  you  said  sympathy  or  pity  was  one 
of  these — eh,  unele?"  little  Ben  inquired. 

The  old  man  answered  merely,  "  I  did,  Ben ;" 
and  then  fell  to  pondering  what  was  the  best  way 
of  making  out  his  subject.  Presently  he  went 
on,  saying,  "  Some  persons,  I  should  tell  you,  lad, 
have  denied  the  very  existence  of  this  class  of 
emotions  in  man.  They  assert  that  the  conduct 
which  appears  unselfish  is  merely  the  most  pru 
dent  and  enlightened  of  all  selfishness.  They  say 
that  we  sympathize  with,  and  delight  to  relieve 
the  suffering  merely  because  we  derive  the  high 
est  pleasure  from  the  act." 

"  Do  they,  though !"  exclaimed  the  boy,  who 
was  evidently  taken  aback  with  the  force  of  the 
argument ;  "  and  isn't  it  so,  uncle  ?  I  really  don't 
see  how  it's  possible  to  get  over  that" 

The  godfather  laughed  at  the  little  man's  sim 
plicity  as  he  cried,  ""Why,  you  little  goose,  can't 
H  H 


482  YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FKANKLIX. 

you  see  that  though  it  may  be  mere  selfishness 
that  makes  us  relieve  those  with  whose  sufferings 
we  sympathize  (because  in  sympathy  we  suffer 
all  the  miseries  of  the  objects  of  our  pity),  never 
theless,  it  can't  be  selfishness  that  makes  us  sym 
pathize  with  them  ?  Is  it  selfishness  to  suffer 
with  them,  and  to  suffer  like  them  ?" 

"  No,  of  course  it  isn't,"  the  little  fellow  said ; 
"I  was  a  goose  not  to  be  able  to  see  that,  cer 
tainly  !" 

"When  we  sympathize,"  the  other  continued, 
"  of  course  the  mere  love  of  promoting  our  own 
happiness  makes  us  desire  to  relieve  our  own  fel 
low-sufferings  ;  and  as  that  can  only  be  done  by 
relieving  the  original  sufferings  which  caused 
them,  of  course  we  can  not  choose  but  act  as  our 
pity  dictates.  But  still  it  was  no  love  of  our  own 
happiness,  Ben,  that  engendered  in  us  the  feeling 
of  commiseration  itself;  for,  riddle  it  out  as  skep 
tics  may,  the  emotion  which  causes  us  to  suffer 
others'  sufferings — to  share  in  their  misery — to 
take  part  in  their  afflictions,  is,  and  must  be,  in 
the  very  nature  of  things,  utterly  unselfish*,  and 
therefore  there  are  such  things  as  unselfish  emo 
tions.  Q.E.D.,"*  added  Uncle  Ben,  with  a  small 
chuckle,  as  if  he  had  vanquished  some  imaginary 
assailant. 

"What's  Q.  E.  B.,  uncle?"  demanded  the 
youngster. 

"  Q.  E.  Z>.,  Ben,"  the  old  man  corrected  him ; 
"  oh,  nothing,  lad — merely  a  bit  of  scholastic  ped 
antry,  that's  all.  Now,  first,  Ben,  I  must  tell 
you  that  we  find  certain  kinds  of  pleasure  in  af 
fecting  our  fellow-creatures  ourselves  in  a  partic 
ular  manner,  and  certain  other  kinds  of  pleasure 
when  they  are  so  affected,  but  not  by  ourselves.  In 

*  Q.  E.  D.  ="uod  erat  demonstrandum:  AngL,  which  was 
to  be  proved. 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEART.          483 

some  cases  we  find  delight  in  doing  them  some 
good,  or  even  some  evil  turn  ourselves,  and  in 
others  the  emotion  springs  merely  from  our  con 
templation  of  the  good  or  evil  which  has  befallen 
them,  and  in  our  participation  of  the  consequent 
joys  or  sorrows.  I  shall  begin  with  describing 
to  you  the  pleasures  that  we  experience  when  we 
ourselves  confer  any  good  or  inflict  any  evil  upon 
our  fellow-creatures.  First  of  all,  then,  we  find  a 
curious  pleasure  even  in  producing  a  simple  im 
pression  upon  people,  without  regard  to  the  im 
pression  being  agreeable  or  disagreeable.  This 
is  what  is  termed  the  delight  of  causing  a  c  sensa 
tion,'  of  producing  an  '  impression,'  or  creating  a 
4  noise  in  the  world.'  True,  most  people  prefer  to 
make  a  favorable  or  agreeable  impression ;  still, 
it  is  an  acknowledged  fact  that  there  are  certain 
morbid  natures  that  even  destroy  themselves  in 
some  wild  and  extravagant  manner  merely  with 
the  view  of  drawing  public  attention  to  them ; 
others,  again,  indulge  in  some  strange  eccentricity 
of  dress  or  manner ;  and  others  live  strange  lives, 
or  in  strange  places,  merely  to  make  themselves 
4  outre?  as  the  saying  goes,  or,  in  plain  English,  to 
render  themselves  remarkable;  while  some  prefer 
even  the  notoriety  of  the  felon's  dock,  and  the  un 
enviable  conspicuousness  of  a  death  upon  the  gal 
lows,  rather  than  suffer  the  utter  insignificance  of 
public  disregard ;  even  as  there  are  other  morbid 
natures  that  feel  delight,  not  in  producing  a  mere 
impression  upon  others,  but  in  having  this  mere 
impression  made  upon  themselves,  such  as  the 
collectors  of  those  morbid  curiosities  which  are 
usually  made  up  of  hangmen's  ropes,  murderers' 
clothes  and  knives,  or  of  some  horrible  '  identical 
axe,'  and  the  like,  though  perhaps  one  great  in 
centive  to  the  formation  of  such  ghastly  museums 
consists  as  much  in  the  desire  to  produce  a  mere 


484  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

impression  upon  others  as  to  have  such  an  impres 
sion  produced  upon  themselves." 

"I  never  knew  that  people  had  such  feelings 
before,"  remarked  the  boy. 

"Then,  Ben,  there  is  the  pleasure  we  feel  in 
communicating  our  own  feelings  to  others"  con 
tinued  the  teacher.  "  I  have  before  spoken  to  you 
of  the  unselfish  character  of  intellectual  delight, 
and  pointed  out  to  you  how,  when  we  are  charmed 
with  the  beauty  of  some  new  truth,  or  fine  figure 
of  speech,  or  the  wit  of  some  startlingly  good  joke, 
we  positively  long  for  another  bosom  to  share  the 
pleasure  with  us ;  and  now  I  should  tell  you  that 
it  is  nearly  the  same  instinctive  propensity  that 
makes  certain  people  spend  large  sums  of  money 
in  printing — without  any  regard  to  profit — the 
works  of  some  favorite  author,  and  others  devote 
months,  and  even  years,  to  writing  certain  books 
from  which  they  can  never  hope  to  receive  the 
least  emolument.  But  there  is  no  more  marked 
instance  of  the  general  desire  among  mankind  to 
communicate  their  own  feelings  to  others  than  is 
to  be  found  among  zealots,  who  are  mostly  so 
eager  and  rabid  to  make  all  the  world  think  and 
feel  as  they  do,  that  they  are  ready  even  to  put 
to  torture  those  who  refuse  to  be  of  their  way  of 
thinking.  The  desire  to  convert  and  proselytize 
— indeed,  the  propensity  for  tract-printing,  for  Gos 
pel-propagating,  and  mission-instituting,  springs 
merely  from  the  innate  wish  of  the  more  earnest 
portion  of  mankind  that  the  entire  human  race 
should  feel  the  blessed  delight,  as  well  as  share 
the  grace  of  that  creed  which  they  themselves 
feel  to  be  the  greatest  blessing  and  grace  ever 
vouchsafed  to  man. 

"  Again,  it  is  this  disposition  to  make  others 
feel  the  same  joy  that  we  feel  which  gives  rise  to 
the  custom  there  is  among  nobles  and  squires  to 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEAKT.          486 

feast  the  villagers  and  peasants  upon  the  occasion 
of  their  marriage,  or  the  birth  of  an  heir ;  or  the 
coming  of  age  of  their  eldest  son,  and  so  forth. 
Farther,  it  is  the  same  desire  to  rejoice  in  com 
mon  that  is  the  cause  of  public  jubilees  in  celebra 
tion  of  some  great  national  good ;  and  the  same 
principle  holds  good  even  down  to  the  harvest- 
homes,  and  Christmas  festivals,  and  May -day 
games  of  the  people." 

"  Isn't  it  curious !"  murmured  the  youth. 

"  Next,  lad,  there  is  an  instinctive  propensity 
in  our  nature,"  Uncle  Ben  proceeded,  "  not  only 
to  share  our  own  happiness  with  our  fellows,  but 
also  to  share  our  advantages  with  them  at  the 
expense  of  our  own  gains ;  in  other  words,  there 
is  a  natural  desire  to  benefit  others.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  that  we  would  rather  have  the  whole 
world  happy  than  miserable,  Ben,  provided  it  cost 
us  nothing  to  make  it  so,  and  the  mind  be  in  a 
sane  condition.  Assuredly,  in  a  natural  state  of 
things,  every  one  in  his  heart  wishes  every  one 
well,  and  it  is  only  the  petty  greeds,  rivalries,  jeal 
ousies,  and  heartburnings  of  our  nature  that  inter 
fere  with  the  operation  of  this  aspiration,  which 
is  merely  the  utterance  of  the  native  benevolence 
of  our  souls.  If  we  admit  that  there  is  an  innate 
tendency  to  feast  those  about  us  when  we  our 
selves  experience  any  unexpected  or  unusual  hap 
piness,  or,  in  other  words,  to  make  those  about  us 
rejoice  merely  because  we  ourselves  are  full  of 
joy,  surely  we  must  allow  that  the  innate  propen 
sity  of  the  human  heart  is  not  alone  to  compass 
our  own  happiness,  but  also  to  share  that  happi 
ness  with  others,  more  particularly  if  we  can  do 
so  without  any  sacrifice  being  required  on  our 
part.  Moreover,  misery,  squalor,  and  bodily  suf 
fering  are  such  naturally  ugly  things  to  us,  that 
even  our  instinctive  love  of  the  beautiful  and  the 


486  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

agreeable  is  sufficient  to  make  us  prefer  universal 
well-being  to  universal  pain  and  gnashing  of  teeth ; 
so  that  it  is  manifest  that  the  benevolent  princi 
ple,  when  uncontrolled  by  any  petty  private  inter 
est,  or  any  savage  revengeful  passion,  is  a  marked 
attribute  of  our  nature,  and  lies  at  the  very  bot 
tom  of  the  human  heart.  But  if  we  are  naturally 
benevolent  to  those  who  have  never  wronged  or 
injured  us  (as  we  are  and  can  be  malevolent  to 
those  who  have),  surely  we  can  advance  a  step 
farther,  and  say  we  have  an  instinctive  propen 
sity  to  benefit  those  fellow-creatures  who  are  nei 
ther  friends  nor  foes  to  us.  I  do  not  mean,"  pro 
ceeded  the  old  man,  "  that  we  have  an  innate  de 
sire  to  relieve  suffering,  for  that  proceeds,  as  we 
have  seen,  from  our  instinctive  disposition  to  com 
miserate,  or,  in  other  words,  to  share  the  misery 
of  others ;  but  I  do  mean  that  we  are  disposed  to 
benefit  and  promote  the  good  of  our  fellow-beings 
merely  for  the  sake  of  benefiting  them,  and  be 
cause  we  find  a  greater  pleasure  in  the  contem 
plation  of  human  misery  than  in  witnessing  hu 
man  misery.  Of  course  this  desire  to  benefit  is 
continually  restrained  by  a  number  of  conflicting 
emotions,"  the  uncle  added,  "  and  more  particu 
larly  by  our  desire  to  promote  our  own  happiness, 
as  well  as  by  our  natural  disposition  to  guard  and 
husband  our  own  possessions,  and  to  treasure  up 
what  we  love  and  esteem.  But  that  there  is  such 
a  benevolent  and  benefactive  impulse  in  human 
nature  is  demonstrable  from  the  very  moral  beau 
ty  of  goodness,  and  the  moral  ugliness  of  evil ;  for 
that  which  is  morally  beautiful  to  us  we  can  not 
but  prefer  to  see  prevail  rather  than  that  which  is 
morally  ugly,  even  as  we  instinctively  prefer  sun 
shine  to  darkness,  and  harmony  to  discord.  In 
deed,  if  there  were  no  innate  disposition  to  bene 
fit,  there  could  never  have  been  a  pure  benefit 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEAET.          487 

rendered  in  the  world— that  is  to  say,  a  good  act 
done  to  a  fellow-creature  for  the  mere  sake  of  the 
goodness ;  for  in  that  case  it  would  either  be  a 
voluntary  act  done  without  any  cause  to  determ 
ine  the  volition,  or  else  the  act  itself  must  be  re 
ferred  to  some  purely  selfish  motive,  which  is  ab 
surd,  since  to  promote  the  good  of  another  at  ti 
sacrifice  of  our  own  personal  good  is  to  be  un 
selfish  ;  and  if,  on  the  other  hand,  it  be  urged  that 
we  do  so  because  the  good  of  others  delights  us, 
or,  in  other  words,  that  it  is  merely  selfishness  on 
our  part,  after  all,  that  causes  us  to  confer  the 
good  on  them,  then  the  answer  is,  How,  if  we  are 
purely  selfish,  can  the  good  of  others  delight  us, 
since  to  find  delight  in  good  that  is  not  our  own 
good  is  to  love  goodness  for  its  own  sake,  and 
hence  it  is  to  have  a  pure  unselfish  love  of  it." 

This  was  said  with  all  the  air  of  an  old  contro 
versial  divine  ;  indeed,  in  his  youth,  Uncle  Ben 
had  delighted  in  disputation,  and  still  nothing 
pleased  him  more  than  to  break  a  friendly  lance 
with  any  one  on  the  pet  subjects  of  his  heart ; 
and  often  he  and  his  brother  Josiah  would  sit  by 
their  hearth,  and  play  a  game  of  logical  chess,  as 
it  were,  while  they  discussed  some  of  the  old  sub 
tleties  of  the  schoolmen,  as  to  whether  the  angels 
could  pass  from  one  point  of  space  to  another 
without  going  through  the  intermediate  places, 
and  whether  space  itself  was  an  entity  or  a  quid 
dity,  as  well  as  trying  to  unravel  the  nice  knotty 
tangle  of  "  Liberty  and  Necessity,"  when  Josiah 
would  stand  out  hard  for  "  Predestination,"  while 
the  more  liberal  brother  would  take  up  the  cud 
gels  in  favor  of  free  agency,  and  try  to  split  the 
fine  metaphysical  hair  as  to  whether  foreknowl 
edge  necessarily  implied  foreordinance. 

"  I  can  hardly  follow  all  you  say,  uncle,"  ob 
served  little  Ben,  as  he  chewed  the  cud  of  the  old 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

man's  syllogism;  "but  it  seems  to  me  that  we 
must  love  goodness  for  goodness'  sake,  as  you 
call  it,  just  as  we  love  truth  for  truth's  sake,  and 
beauty  for  beauty's  sake." 

"  Of  course  we  do,  lad,"  cried  the  other ;  "  and 
if  we  have  a  pure  unselfish  love  of  goodness  and 
truth,  then,  I  say  again,  we  have  a  pure  love  of 
promoting  the  good  of  others,  or,  what  is  quite 
the  same  thing,  an  utterly  disinterested  desire  to 
benefit  them.  However,  perhaps  the  most  con 
vincing  proof  of  the  existence  of  this  innate  be 
nevolence  of  our  nature  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact 
which  nobody  doubts,  and  none  have  ever  at 
tempted  to  gainsay,  viz.,  that  there  is  an  instinct 
ive  spirit  of  malevolence  in  the  human  heart,  and 
that  we  desire  to  injure,  and  love  to  inflict  evil 
upon  those  whom  we  believe  to  have  wronged 
us,  or  even  interfered  with  the  attainment  of  our 
wishes." 

"Oh,  uncle,  don't  tell  me,  after  all  the  fine 
things  you've  been  saying  about  human  nature, 
that  we  have  such  feelings  at  all,"  little  Ben  ex 
claimed,  for  he  had  begun  to  look  upon  the  heart 
of  man  with  the  same  fond  eyes  as  a  mother  gazes 
at  the  babe  in  her  lap,  and  he  couldn't  bear  to 
think  it  had  got  even  one  little  blemish  about  it. 

"  Don't  tell  you !"  shouted  Uncle  Benjamin ;  "  of 
course  I  will  tell  you,  boy.  Do  you  think  I  wish  to 
build  up  a  barley-sugar  palace  of  a  world  for  you  ? 
Do  you  think  I  wish  to  fasten  a  pair  of  goose- 
wings  on  your  back,  youngster,  and  lead  you  to 
believe  that  you — little  devil  as  you  can  be — are 
a  perfect  angel  ?  No,  lad !"  and  he  thumped  the 
table  as  he  said  the  words ;  "  you  are  not  an  an 
gel,  only  an  angel  in  the  bud ;  a  creeping,  crawl 
ing  human  grub,  that  may  one  day  be  a  winged 
butterfly.  The  human  heart,  Ben,  is  picked  out 
all  black  and  white,  like  a  chess-board,  with  the 


A  PEEP   INTO   THE   HEART. 

strong  contrast  of  opposing  passions  —  passions 
for  good,  and  passions  for  evil  as  well ;  and  I  say 
again,  the  very  fact  of  their  being  a  malevolent 
principle  in  our  soul  is  proof  conclusive  of  there 
being  a  benevolent  one  also  to  counterbalance  it. 
Hence,  lad,  the  next  moral  pleasure  we  have  to 
deal  with  is  the  pleasure  ice  find  in  injuring  oth 
ers.  Some  believe  that  there  are  people  of  an  in 
nately  cruel  nature,  who  delight  in  torturing  for 
the  mere  sake  of  the  pleasure  they  derive  from 
the  contemplation  of  the  torments— that  is  to  say, 
in  torturing  those  who  have  never  offended  them 
— not  because  the  torturers  have  any  savage  de 
sire  for  revenge  upon  their  soul,  but  simply  be 
cause  the  evil,  the  pain,  and  the  anguish  are  agree 
able  to  their  nature.  Now  I  don't  believe  that 
such  c  depraved'  nature,  as  this  is  termed,  is  possi 
ble  in  the  very  nature  of  things.  It  is  impossible 
that  ugliness  can  be  beautiful,  Ben.  Some,  in 
deed,  may  think  that  beautiful  which  we  hold  to 
be  ugly ;  still,  it  is  not  ugliness  to  them,  but  beau 
ty  instead.  So,  lad,  pain,  even  in  another,  never 
can  be  pleasure  to  us ;  for  it  is  part  of  God's  ordi 
nation  that  the  sight  of  pain  in  any  feeling  thing, 
directly  it  impresses  us  with  a  sense  of  the  pain, 
should  give  rise  to  a  feeling  of  sympathy  or  pity 
in  the  beholder,  and  this  has  been  rendered  so 
naturally  painful  and  distressing  to  us  as  to  induce 
us  to  seek  to  put  an  end  to  the  sufferings  which 
originally  excited  it." 

"  Well,  but,  uncle,  I  remember  some  boys  at  old 
BrownwelPs  school,"  urged  young  Ben,  "  who  al 
ways  seemed  to  me  to  be  naturally  cruel,  and  used 
to  ill-treat — oh,  so  dreadfully,  you  don't  know ! — 
the  poor  dumb  animals  that  mother  always  taught 
us  to  be  kind  to." 

"Yes,  lad,  I  know,"  the  uncle  continued ;  "boys 
will  tear  off  flies'  legs  and  wings,  tie  kettles  to 


490  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

dogs'  tails,  put  cats'  feet  in  walnut-shells,  and  com 
mit  a  host  of  other  atrocities,  even  as  grown  peo 
ple  will  go  to  executions,  and  find  delight  in  gaz 
ing  at  some  poor  wretch  in  his  death-struggles." 

"  Then  isn't  that  a  proof  that  some  persons  do 
find  pleasure  in  other  people's  pain?"  modestly 
inquired  the  little  fellow. 

"  No,  lad,"  cried  the  uncle ;  "  it  is  not,  and  can 
not  possibly  be  a  proof  of  what,  in  the  very  nature 
of  things,  I  repeat,  is  a  moral  impossibility ;  for  I 
say  again,  the  contemplation  of  pain  in  another — 
when  we  have  a  sense  of  the  pain — has  been  made 
to  produce  an  emotion  of  pity,  which  is  merely  re 
flected  suffering,  and  therefore  can  not  be  pleas 
ure.  But  it  is  a  proof  that  humankind  may  see 
pain  without  feeling  it ;  and  it  is  simply  because 
the  wantonly  cruel  do  not  feel,  and  have  no  sense 
of  the  sufferings  they  inflict,  that  they  find  delight 
in  witnessing  the  writhings  of  the  death-throes  of 
their  fellows.  Besides,  such  people  arc  barbarous 
ly  curious,  Ben,  to  see  how  the  sentient  creature 
will  behave  under  the  trying  circumstances ;  and 
hence,  as  with  the  boys  in  the  fable,  even  the  death 
of  another  being  becomes  sport  to  them,  owing  to 
the  novelty  and  extravagance  of  the  contortions 
induced  by  the  bodily  agony." 

"Oh, I  see,"  the  boy  exclaimed;  "it  is  merely 
unfeeling  curiosity,  then,  that  makes  boys  and  oth 
ers  so  cruel  as  they  are." 

"Yes,  Ben,  it  is  the  prurience — the  itch  of  mor 
bid,  unfeeling  curiosity,  as  you  say,"  added  the  tu 
tor  ;  "  and  directly  we  begin  to  think  and  feel  at 
the  foot  of  the  gallows,  why,  we  get  sick,  and 
swoon  with  a  sense  of  the  agony  we  are  contem 
plating." 

"  I  see !  I  see !"  said  the  lad,  thoughtfully,  for  he 
was  only  too  glad  to  be  beaten  on  such  a  subject. 

"  Well,  but,  though  we  do  not  like  pain  for 


A  PEEP  INTO  THE  HEAET. 


491 


pain's  sake,"  Uncle  Ben  went  on,  "nor  love  it 
with  the  same  disinterested  love  as  we  do  good 
ness,  nevertheless  there  are  certainly  times  when 
the  infliction  of  pain  upon  a  human  being,  or  even 
an  animal,  becomes  an  intense  delight  to  our  soul. 
1  Revenge  is  sweet,'  says  the  proverb ;  but,  though 
it  assuredly  is  sweet  at  the  moment  of  gratifica 
tion—  most  sweet  to  the  savage,  unthinking  na 
ture  to  give  wound  for  wound,  and  even  a  hund 
red  heavy  wounds  for  one  little  one,  nevertheless 
ungratified  revenge  is  by  no  means  sweet,  but 
simply  the  bitterest  and  most  galling  passion — 
the  ugliest  and  sharpest  stinging  of  all  the  appe 
tites  that  can  stir  our  nature.     The  hunger  for 
blood  and  human  agony  is  the  acutest  form  of  all 
hunger  that  man  can  possibly  suffer ;   and  the 
wretch  who  suffers  it  feels  all  the  torments  of  the 
starving  man  upon  a  raft  at  sea,  racked  with  a 
million  fold  the  agonies  of  starvation.    Hence,  lad, 
beware  how  you  hug  the  viper  to  your  bosom ; 
for,  rely  upon  it,  in  seeking  to  compass  the  misery 
of  another,  you  compass  your  own  to  a  far  greater 
degree  than  you  can  ever  hope  to  wreak  it  upon 
your  enemy,  since  the  revengeful  man  suffers  all 
the  protracted  agony  of  an  enduring  devilish  tem 
per,  that  is  forever  rankling  (as  if  he  had  a  thorn 
in  his  heart)  with  all  the  long-continued  gnawing 
of  an  ugly  fester,  whereas  the  object  of  the  pas 
sion  can  only  be  made  to  feel  the  mere  spasm  of 
the  temporary  wound  the  other  hopes  and  longs 
to  inflict  upon  him." 

•c  Well,  then,  uncle,  revenge,"  the  pupil  chimed 
in,  "  revenge  is  not  sweet ;  it  is  silly." 

"  Silly  as  madness,  child,"  was  the  answer ;  "  so 
cut  it  out  of  your  heart,  Ben,  while  your  heart  is 
young  and  generous,  and  keep  your  eyes  forever 
fixed  upon  the  true  nobility  of  the  New  Com 
mandment,  which  enjoins  us  to  *  love  our  enemies.' 


492  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

Love  them,  I  say  to  you,  for  your  own  sake — for 
the  very  happiness  there  is  in  loving  any  one.  It 
may  be  hard  work  for  poor  human  nature  to  com 
pass,  and  require  the  highest  human  heroism  to 
be  able,  even  in  our  mortal  agony,  to  cry,  *  Father, 
forgive  them,  they  know  not  what  they  do ;'  but 
it  is  possible  to  grow  such  a  spirit  of  wise  kind 
ness  in  our  heart,  that  if  we  can  not  forget  a 
wrong,  we  shall,  at  least,  have  common  worldly 
prudence  enough  to  forgive  it.  Nor  can  I  leave 
this  part  of  my  subject,  boy,  without  here  enforc 
ing  upon  you  what  has  always  appeared  to  me 
one  of  the  strongest  proofs  of  the  divine  origin 
of  this  same  New  Commandment  itself.  It  is 
merely  human  to  desire  blood  for  blood ;  this  is 
only  the  bright-red  glaring  justice  of  man  in  the 
rough,  and  therefore  to  love  the  blood-shedder  is 
not  human ;  it  is  more  than  human,  and  is  so  ut 
terly  out  of  the  natural  course  and  current  of  our 
feelings  and  thoughts,  that  no  mere  man  could 
ever  have  conceived  the  wondrous  wisdom  and 
godliness  there  is  in  the  precept ;  and  certainly 
no  mere  man  could  have  given  us  in  his  life  so 
lucid  an  example  of  the  beauty  and  magnanimity 
of  the  creed  ;  no  ordinary  bit  of  humanity  could 
have  done  this  any  more  than  he  could  have  con 
ceived  and  compassed  creation.  I  say,  the  very 
thought  itself  is  beyond  the  bounds  of  human 
imagination  and  human  aspiration  to  come  at ;  for 
if  it  be  impossible,  as  all  allow,  for  the  fancy  of 
man  to  conceive  a  new  sense — another  sense  su- 
peradded  to  our  faculties  that  is  not  a  compound 
of  two  or  more  of  our  existing  senses,  then  as  as 
suredly  no  mere  man's  brain  and  heart  could  ever 
have  had  an  inkling  of  this  supremely  new  sense 
— this  most  unnatural  impulse  to  turn  the  other 
cheek  when  one  has  been  smitten,  and  to  bless 
them  that  persecute  you." 


A    PEEP    INTO    THE    HEAKT. 


493 


"  I  understand  you,  uncle,"  answered  the  lad, 
"  and  thank  you  kindly  for  the  thought." 

"  Well,  Ben,  I  hate  chattering  religion  even  to 
you,  boy,"  the  godfather  proceeded.  "It  is  a 
thing  for  the  heart  to  feel,  and  not  for  the  brain 
to  talk  about ;  indeed,  it  is  the  natural  communi 
cation  between  man  and  God,  and  not  between 
man  and  man,  who  can  have  no  possible  right  to 
interfere  in  such  matters,"  said  the  old  Puritan, 
with  no  little  emphasis  on  the  word.  "  But  this 
is  not  religion,  lad ;  it  is  philosophy — philosophy 
counseling  the  heart,  and  not  bigotry  striving  to 
proselytize  it." 

"  But,  uncle,  do  you  know,  I've  been  thinking 
all  this  while,"  confided  the  simple  little  pupil, 
"  why,  if  revenge  is  so  wrong  and  so  natural,  that 
it  wanted  Christ  himself  to  come  and  teach  us  the 
New  Commandment,  why  such  a  feeling  should 
have  been  given  to  us  at  all  ?" 

"  Ah !  lad,  that  why  is  always  a  puzzler ;  your 
final  causes,  as  they  are  called,  are  difficult  things 
for  poor  finite  reason  to  come  at,"  sighed  Uncle 
Benjamin.  "A  mere  solitary  brick  can  never 
give  us  an  idea  of  the  architecture  of  the  entire 
palace.  Nevertheless,  Ben,  we  can  get  Just  a 
twinkle  of  light  sometimes,  and  so  it  is  with  our 
malevolent  feelings,  which  are  far  from  being  so 
utterly  bad  as  you  imagine.  Indeed,  if  man  had 
not  been  made  to  grow  angry  and  savage  at  any 
interference  with  the  objects  of  his  desires,  he 
would  have  been  but  a  poor  sluggish  brute,  and 
certainly  would  never  have  wrought  a  tithe  of 
the  grand  achievements  he  has  in  the  world.^  We 
are  angry  even  with  the  stocks  and  stones  in  na 
ture,  Ben,  when  they  offend  us,  either  by  injuring 
or  impeding  us.  A  baby  delights  to  beat  the 
chair  or  table  that  has  hurt  it,  and  even  a  great 
man  glories  in  crushing  the  obstacles  that  cumber 


494  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

the  road  to  some  grand  end.  This  conquest  of 
difficulties  rs,  as  I  before  said,  one  of  man's  finest 
triumphs,  and  if  we  were  not  angry  with  the 
mountains  that  oppose  our  progress,  we  should 
never  cut  through  them ;  if  the  fetters  did  not 
gall  our  flesh,  we  should  remain  willing  slaves  all 
our  lives.  Hannibal's  proudest  feat  was  to  force 
his  way  across  the  Alps  rather  than  to  slink  round 
the  base  of  them,  and  he  must  have  felt  a  finer 
triumph  in  vanquishing  the  very  mountains  than 
he  ever  did  in  battling  with  any  human  host.  So 
our  old  friend  Columbus,  too,  when  he  beheld  the 
morning  sun  crimsoning  the  shores  he  had  been 
so  long  in  quest  of,  must  have  gloried  more  in 
having  conquered  the  sea  itself  than  in  having 
mastered  his  mutinous  crew,  and  humbled  the 
pride  of  the  kings  who  had  treated  his  scheme 
with  scorn.  We  like  to  crush  under  our  heel  the 
stones  that  are  the  stumbling-blocks  in  our  way ; 
and  it  is  only  when  we  have  so  little  sense  of  hu 
man  error  and  human  misery  that  we  treat  men 
as  stones,  and  consequently  wish  to  destroy  or 
bruise  the  hearts  of  our  fellow-creatures,  that  the 
malevolent  spirit  runs  riot,  and  converts  a  princi 
ple  that  was  meant  to  stir  us  to  do  the  grandest 
work  into  a  bit  of  devilry  compassing  the  bloodi 
est  ends." 

"Isn't  it  strange,"  little  Ben  exclaimed,  "that 
the  same  feeling  should  be  both  good  and  bad ! 
for,  if  I  understand  you,  uncle,  it  is  only  wrong  to 
feel  angry  toward  men ;  but  when  we  are  roused 
with  a  desire  to  beat  dowrn  some  great  difficulty, 
there  is  no  harm  in  the  feeling." 

"  Ay,  my  boy,  it  is  the  difference  between  use 
and  abuse.  The  destructive  propensity  of  our 
nature  may  lead  to  murder ;  it  should  lead  to  the 
grandest  engineering  in  life — the  cutting  through 
the  mountains  of  circumstances  that  appear  to 


A   PEEP   INTO   THE   HEAKT.  495 

wall  in  our  existence.  Nor  is  the  malevolent  or 
angry  feeling  always  bad,  even  when  exercised 
against  our  fellow-creatures,  Ben.  Maudlin  be 
nevolence  is  the  very  dotage  of  weak  and  fatuous 
humanity.  Some  people  have  such  mere  milksop 
'  hearts  that  they  can  not  bear  to  punish.  But 
punishment,  Ben,  is  simply  moral  surgery,  and  the 
rod  is  as  necessary  as  the  knife — not  the  knife  of 
the  butcher  nor  the  rod  of  the  tyrant,  but  each 
used  with  all  the  tenderness  of  a  kind  and  loving 
hand.  To  cuddle  and  caress  the  criminal,  lad,  is 
to  behave  as  if  we  were  in  love  with  criminality ; 
but  to  treat  a  criminal  as  he  should  be  treated  is 
to  inflict  upon  him  some  bodily  penance  that  will 
have  the  effect  of  developing  the  natural  remorse 
and  contrition  of  his  heart— to  do  this  with  no  re 
vengeful  spirit,  but  with  the  merciful  regard  of 
chastening  rather  than  chastising  him ;  but  still, 
never  to  forget  that  penance  is  necessary  for  pen 
itence,  and  that  penitence  alone  can  turn  and 
soften  the  heart.  Hence,  I  say,  as  little  punish 
ment  as  possible,  but  still  penance  sufficient  to 
awaken  penitence,  and,  depend  upon  it,  we  are  the 
criminal's  best  friend  after  all." 

The  subject  was  exhausted,  and  the  uncle  came 
and  stood  by  the  boy  at  the  table,  watching  the 
progress  of  his  sketch ;  and  when  he  had  put  in 
a  few  touches  for  the  lad,  and  shown  him  how  to 
whisk  out  the  high  lights  with  the  corner  of  his 
handkerchief,  he  began  striding  the  room  again 
as  he  resumed  the  thread  of  his  theme. 

"  The  next  unselfish  emotion  that  we  have  to 
treat  of,  lad,"  he  went  on  talking  and  walking,  "is 
that  of  emulation,  or  the  pleasure  we  derive  from 
excelling  or  surpassing  others.  Ambition,  I  have 
before  told  you,  is  the  love  of  power,  or  rather 
the  love  of  the  deference  and  court  that  is  paid  to 
power — tyranny  being  the  mere  love  of  the  pow- 


496  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

er  itself.  But  emulation  or  rivalry  is  simply  the 
love  of  racing  upon  the  great  human  race-course 
of  life ;  and  there  are  social  jockeys  who  find  in 
tense  delight  in  being  '  up  in  the  stirrup,'  as  it  is 
called,  and  in  whipping  and  spurring  the  beast 
they  are  mounted  upon,  in  the  hot  struggle  to 
win  some  paltry  prize  by  a  neck.  Now  jockeys, 
lad,  are  proverbial  for  their  love  of  jockeying, 
and  a  fierce  spirit  of  rivalry  is  not  the  temper  that 
prompts  the  soul  to  acts  of  the  purest  honesty 
or  the  brightest  generosity.  Moreover,  there  is 
always  this  bitter  drawback,  even  to  the  greatest 
good  luck,  when  one  man  gambles  against  anoth 
er — that  the  winner  makes  a  beggar  of  his  antag 
onist  ;  and  even  so  the  delight  of  distancing  oth 
ers  is  but  sorry  child's  play,  and  leads  to  a  whole 
host  of  heartburnings  and  feuds  among  those 
who  are  left  behind,  and  that  only  for  the  glory 
of  the  one  greedy  and  overreaching  nature  that 
wins.  It  is  this  petty  racing  spirit  that  sets  ev 
ery  one  struggling  nowadays  to  get  out  of  their 
own  sphere  and  class.  The  servant  longs  to 
leave  oif  her  caps,  and  go  up  and  sit  in  the  par 
lor  like  her  mistress ;  and  the  mistress  longs,  in 
her  turn,  to  be  out  riding  in  her  carriage  like  '  my 
lady.'  There  is  no  such  thing  as  contentment ; 
all  is  scramble,  struggle,  greed,  and  rivalry.  And 
yet,  exalt  the  servant  into  the  mistress,  and  the 
mistress  into  '  my  lady,'  and  see  how  the  parvenue 
is  laughed  at  and  despised ;  for  the  bird  which 
has  escaped  from  its  cage  is  almost  sure  to  be 
pecked  to  death  by  the  old  wild  ones.  Howev 
er,  lad,  when  the  love  of  excelling  is  limited  to 
the  love  of  excellence,  it  is  one  of  the  grandest 
pleasures  of  which  our  nature  is  susceptible ;  and 
this,  when  combined  with  the  power  to  excel,  is 
simply  human  genius ;  for  this  love  of  excellence 
is  not  the  desire  to  distance  men,  but  merely  to 


A   PEEP    INTO   THE   HEAKT.  497 

surpass  certain  works — to  transcend  certain  beau 
ties.  There  is  none  of  the  chafing  of  vulgar, 
worldly  competition  in  it,  but  it  is  merely  a  crav 
ing  to  approximate  perfection.  Indeed,  in  its 
highest  and  purest  form,  it  has  no  sense  of  man 
kind — no  sense  of  opposing  interest,  nor  desire  to 
trip  others  up  by  the  heels,  but  only  a  sense  of 
the  work  itself,  and  to  make  it  better  than  what 
has  been  done  before.  It  is  this  feeling  which  is 
the  cause  of  all  human  improvement,  as  well  as  of 
all  human  excellence  itself. 

"  There  is  now  but  one  other  feeling  to  be  de 
scribed,"  added  the  old  man,  "  and  then  we  shall 
have  exhausted  this  division  of  the  unselfish  emo 
tions  of  man." 

"  What  is  that,  uncle  ?"  the  boy  inquired. 

'''•The  love  of  conquering  others"  was  the  an 
swer  ;  "  though  I  have  before  spoken  of  this  so 
fully,  while  treating  of  the  love  of  success  and  the 
love  of  power,  that  only  a  few  words  need  be  said 
farther  upon  the  matter.  The  love  of  conquering 
is  really  the  love  of  humbling  the  proud,  for  there 
is  little  pleasure  in  depressing  those  who  are  al 
ready  depressed.  The  higher  the  enemy  we  van 
quish,  the  greater  the  delight  of  the  victory.  Now 
it  was  this  love  of  humbling  that  made  the  warri 
ors  of  old  find  such  pleasure  in  enslaving  the  con 
quered  ;  and  ready  as  the  world  always  has  been 
to  worship  the  conqueror,  still  the  worship  has 
been  that  of  awe  rather  than  veneration — the  sac 
rifice  paid  to  the  bloodstained  pagan  idol  in  the 
hope  of  appeasing  his  love  of  slaughter.  Hence 
you  see,  lad,  the  delight  of  triumphing  over  our 
fellows  consists  of  the  composite  charm  of  enslav 
ing  others  and  elevating  ourselves — of  putting 
our  heel  on  the  neck  of  one  who  was  once  as 
proud  as  we,  and  feeling  ourselves  a  few  inches 
higher  because  we  are  lifted  up  on  the  poor  ped- 
1 1 


498  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

estal  of  another's  carcass.  This  is  but  petty  pos 
ture-master  work  at  best,  Ben,  and  there  is  too  lit 
tle  real  elevation  and  too  much  human  debasement 
about  it,  too  many  victims  and  only  one  victor,  to 
please  me.  Nevertheless,  when  the  same  passion 
is  applied  to  the  conquest  of  the  great  host  of  cir 
cumstances  with  which  we  have  always  to  battle 
— to  the  beating  down  of  difficulties,  and  to  the 
enslaving  of  the  giant  forces  of  the  world  in  which 
we  live,  and  making  them  work  for  the  benefit  of 
mankind,  I  know  no  ovation  that  can  be  too  grand 
for  such  a  bloodless  and  yet  glorious  victory." 

THE    UNSELFISH    EMOTIONS 

Which  arise  when  others  are  affected  in  a  partic 
ular  manner,  but  not  by  ourselves. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  little  Ben,  "  what  have  you 
got  to  do  now?  We  have  done  the  unselfish 
emotions  which — are — which — how  did  you  ex 
press  it,  uncle  ?" 

"  The  unselfish  emotions  that  spring  up  in  the 
bosom  when  we  ourselves  aifect  others  in  a  par 
ticular  manner,"  the  old  man  prompted  the  boy, 
"  and  now  we  have  to  do  those  which  arise  when 
others  are  affected  in  a  particular  manner,  but  not 
by  ourselves." 

"Oh  yes," repeated  Ben,  "when  others  are  af 
fected  by  ourselves,  and  when  others  are  aifect- 
ed,  but  not  by  ourselves.  I  think,  uncle,  you  said 
sympathy  belonged  to  the  latter  class." 

The  elder  Benjamin  returned  no  direct  answer 
to  the  question,  but  merely  said,  "Why  do  we 
turn  sick  at  the  sight  of  blood,  Ben  ?" 

The  boy  stared  as  if  he  wondered  what  that 
could  have  to  do  with  the  subject,  and  replied, 
"I'm  sure  I  can't  say,  uncle." 

"  Well,  lad,  in  itself,"  went  on  the  old  man, 


A   PEEP   INTO   THE    HEAIIT.  499 

"  there  is  nothing  particularly  repulsive  about  the 
vital  fluid  ;  indeed,  the  color  is  so  intense,  the 
crimson  so  fine,  that  naturally  it  should  be  a  pleas 
ing  object  to  look  upon.  An  infant  would  dabble 
in  it  with  delight ;  and  yet  the  sight  of  it  often 
makes  stout-hearted  men  swoon." 

The  boy  still  stared  with  wonder  at  what  it  all 
meant. 

"  Why,  Ben,  as  the  blaze  of  that  old  smith's 
forge  is  winsome,  with  the  snow  lying  thick  upon 
the  ground,  because  of  the  imaginary  sense  of 
warmth  it  gives  us  amid  all  the  cold,  so  blood  is 
sickening  to  us  because  the  imagination  has  a 
sense  of  the  wound  which  caused  it  to  flow,  and 
of  the  suifering  and  danger  connected  with  the 
spilling  of  it.  It  is  this  working  of  the  imagina 
tion  that  lies  at  the  very  bottom  of  our  feeling  of 
sympathy." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  young  Benjamin  murmured  out. 

"  Had  we  been  made  as  unsympathetic  and  un 
imaginative  as  leeches,  the  sight  of  the  vital  fluid 
would  have  delighted  us  as  much  as  them,"  the 
teacher  proceeded ;  "  and  it  is  because  some  peo 
ple  have  more  or  less  imagination  than  others  that 
they  have  more  or  less  pity  for  the  afflicted.  This 
is  the  reason  why  spectacles  of  human  agony,  that 
stir  some  to  their  heart's  core,  can  be  witnessed 
by  others  without  even  a  qualm,  and  why  sur 
geons  cease  after  a  time  to  be  unmanned,  as  it  is 
called,  during  their  operations,  because,  after  con 
siderable  practice,  the  surgical  mind  becomes  too 
intent  upon  the  cure  to  think  any  longer  of  the 
suffering  ;  so  that,  you  see,  the  feeling  of  sympa 
thy  has  no  more  selfishness  about  it  than  there  is 
selfishness  in  being  pleased  with  the  sight  of  a 
clean  white  garment  in  summer,  and  which  is 
pleasing  to  us  simply  because  it  revives  in  our 
mind  a  sense  of  the  coolness  of  snow." 


500  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

"  Of  course  there  isn't !"  cried  the  little  fellow. 
"  I  can  see  it  now  quite  plainly." 

"  Now,  Ben,  this  feeling  of  sympathy  springs 
out  of  the  very  constitution  of  the  human  mind, 
having  its  source  in  what  is  called  the  association 
of  ideas,  and  thus  it  becomes  a  thorough  funda 
mental  element  of  our  nature,  so  that  we  can  not 
but  regard  it  as  part  of  the  wise  and  merciful  or 
dinations  of  creation  that  we  should  suifer  with 
the  suffering,  and  rejoice  with  the  joyful.  This 
sympathy  of  ours  is  the  nerve-string  that  unites 
all  the  different  members  of  the  human  family  into 
one  consentaneous  body,  with  but  one  common 
heart  among  all.  This  is  the  little  cobweb  fibre 
that  weaves  and  knits  the  gossamer  threads  of 
life  into  the  one  perfect  social  web ;  this  the  won 
drous  cause  of  the  widening  circles  in  the  pool, 
making  the  whole  mass  pulse  and  vibrate  directly 
one  little  particle  of  it  is  stirred ;  for  if  the  whole 
human  fraternity  were  bound  together,  each  to 
each,  with  a  band  of  living  flesh  stretching  from 
bosom  to  bosom,  and  quickened  with  the  same 
blood  and  reticulated  with  the  same  nerves,  so 
that,  though  there  were  many  bodies,  there  was 
but  one  common  sensorium,  one  common  life 
among  the  whole,  man  could  not  be  more  surely 
bound  to  man  than  he  is  by  the  ligaments  and 
tissues,  as  it  were,  of  his  sympathetic  emotions. 
True,  we  do  not  see  the  spiritual  band,  we  only 
feel  it ;  but  assuredly  it  exists  as  much  as  if  we 
could  press  the  warm  life-bond  in  our  hands.  All 
that  is  wanted  is  that  we  should  think  when  mis 
ery  is  presented  to  us,  and  then  we  must  feel;  the 
thoughtless  alone  can  be  indifferent.  It  is  impos 
sible  that  even  the  meanest  and  the  vilest  should 
suffer,  and  we  not  feel  a  pity  for  their  sufferings, 
if  we  will  but  let  the  common  course  of  our  intel 
lectual  nature  work  as  it  was  meant  to  do;  and 


A   PEEP    INTO   THE   HEART.  601 

it  is  only  the  fool  that  suffers  misery  to  endure 
without  feeling  it,  or  without  a  wish,  if  not  an  en 
deavor,  to  relieve  it." 

"  How  beautifully  it  is  all  arranged,  to  be  sure, 
uncle,"  was  all  the  little  fellow  had  to  say. 

"  Beautiful !"  echoed  Uncle  Ben ;  "  why,  the 
heavens  themselves  are  not  more  beautiful  than 
is  the  heart  of  man,  if  we  will  but  look  into  it,  as 
closely  as  star-gazers  love  to  scan  the  glories  of 
the  firmament.  And  see  here,  lad,"  he  went  on : 
"  there  is  the  same  mighty  principle  of  harmony 
running  through  the  human  heart  as  there  is  in 
the  great  w^omb  of  space  itself.  What  is  it  that 
keeps  the  planets  forever  circling  in  their  course  ? 
Newton  has  given  us  the  golden  key  to  the  mys 
tery.  There  are  two  forces  ever  at  work,  he 
shows  us,  throughout  all  nature;  the  one  a  mere 
impetus,  driving  the  orbs  in  the  direction  of  the 
force  that  has  been  originally  impressed  upon 
them,  and  limited  to  the  mere  moving  body  itself, 
and  the  other  a  mighty  spirit  of  attraction,  ex 
tending  throughout  the  entire  universe,  and  tend 
ing  to  draw  every  body  each  toward  the  other ; 
hence  one  power  tends  to  drive  the  moving  body 
in  a  straight  line,  and  the  other  to  draw  it  clown 
toward  the  centre  of  the  entire  world-system 
itself,  so  that  by  the  two  acting  at  right  angles 
to  one  another,  a  balance  is  produced,  and  a  series 
of  movements  in  diagonals  is  the  result,  ending 
in  the  describing  of  one  continuous  and  perfect 
circle.  Fling  a  stone  straight  along  in  the  air, 
and  you  will  find  it  describe  a  curve,  Ben — a  curve 
that  is  brought  to  an  abrupt  termination  only  by 
the  ground  on  which  it  fell.  It  flies  in  a  straight 
line  from  your  hand,  lad  ;  the  earth  draws  it  down 
and  down  to  the  ground ;  and  so  it  goes  sweeping 
on,  falling  and  falling  as  it  rushes  through  the  air, 
and  describing  the  same  ever-bending  line  as  even 
a  planet  itself  in  its  course." 


602  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

"But  what  has  this  to  do  with  sympathy?" 
said  the  boy. 

"  Listen,  Ben,"  the  old  man  added ;  "  there  are 
the  same  rectangular  forces  forever  at  work  in 
the  moral  world  as  in  the  stellar  one.  The  selfish 
force  drives  man  away  from  home  in  quest  of  the 
objects  of  his  wants  and  desires :  his  appetites 
and  his  impulses  are  the  impetus  which  stirs  him 
in  this  direction,  and  which  keeps  him  forever 
moving  in  his  own  individual  path.  But  the  un 
selfish  force  of  sympathy,  the  mighty  and  invisi 
ble  power  of  human  attraction,  which  causes  every 
human  heart  to  tend  and  gravitate,  as  it  were,  to 
every  other  human  heart,  and  which  reaches  to 
the  farthermost  corners  of  the  earth,  makes  him 
revert  to  the  centre  of  the  social  circle  in  which 
he  dwells;  and  thus  the  two  moral  powers,  work 
ing  in  unison,  cause  him  to  move  harmoniously  in 
the  orbit  that  has  been  marked  out  for  him,  so 
that,  while  seeking  his  own  good,  he  is  forever 
fulfilling  his  loving  offices  as  well  as  the  duties  of 
kinship,  friendship,  or  citizenship  to  those  about 
him." 

"  Oh,  wonderful !  most  wonderful !"  exclaimed 
the  youth,  who  was  now  able  to  see  and  compre 
hend  what  was  meant  by  the  emotion  of  sym 
pathy. 

"  And  now,  Ben,  let  me  beg  of  you,  lad,  ever  to 
bear  in  mind,"  the  earnest  old  man  concluded, 
"  that  you  have  been  so  constituted  that  a  fellow- 
creature's  misery  not  only  should  never  be  a  mat 
ter  of  indifference  to  you,  but  (if  you  will  only 
think  as  a  man — if  you  will  but  attend  to  the 
misery,  and  not  avert  your  eyes  and  heart  from  it) 
you  have  been  made  so  that  it  can  not  possibly  be 
indifferent  to  you;  for  as  it  has  been  arranged  that 
the  infection  of  one  happy,  smiling  face  should 
make  others  feel  disposed  to  smile  too,  so,  lad,  the 


A    PEEP    INTO   THE    HEART. 


503 


sight  of  a  sorrowing  countenance  is  like  the  sight 
of  blood  to  unhardened  natures :  it  makes  the 
heart  sick  with  the  fellow-sorrow  it  breeds  with 
in  it.     Still  this  sickness,  boy,  is  no  morbid  dis 
ease,  but  merely  the  sickness  of  the  yearning  ap 
petite  of  our  common  humanity  to  heal  the  ugly 
mental  sore — to  pour  oil  into  the  wound  that  it 
pains  us  to  look  upon.     It  only  wants  a  halfpen 
nyworth  of  oil  in  the  palm,  I  told  you  before,  Ben, 
for  a  man  to  be  able  to  play  the  good  Samaritan 
any  day ;  and,  depend  upon  it,  charity  lies  not  in 
munificence  of  gifts  (which  are  often  only  the 
mere  lacker  of  brazen  ostentation),  but  in  tender 
ness  of  heart,  in  mercifulness  of  thought,  in  kindli 
ness  of  construction,  and  in  willingness  to  serve 
and  tend  rather  than  in  readiness  to  give  and  de 
part.     To  the  suffering,  sympathy  alone  is  all- 
sufficient  ;  one  tear-drop  is  of  more  value  to  the 
honest  aching  heart  than  a  guinea  at  any  time. 
It  is  only  the  born  beggars  and  canting  impostors 
that  put  a  market-price  upon  human  commisera 
tion.     A  few  minutes  by  the  sick-bed,  a  single  up 
ward  glance  of  the  eyes,  one  tender  tone,  a  gen 
tle  pressure  of  the  palm,  are  worth  more  to  the 
suffering  poor  than  a  whole  volume  of  stock  sen 
timent,  a  purseful  of  gold,  or  a  prayer-book  full 
of  mere  magpie  religion.     The  kindly  look  and 
the  comforting  word  we  can  always  give ;  and 
these,  depend  upon  it,  are  the  true  oil  of  good 
Samaritanship — the  oil  that  is  a  very  balm  to  the 
heart-sore ;  these  the  widow's  mites  that  all  can 
drop  into  the  poor-box,  and  which  are  greater  in 
value  than  all  other  gifts  that  can  be  cast  into 
the  human  treasury.     If  it  were  not  thus,  what 
significance  could  there  be  in  the  proverb  which 
says,  'What  would  the  poor  do  without  the  poor?' 
for  the  poor  have  only  the  comfort  of  commisera 
tion  to  give  to  the  poor,  and  this,  which  trans- 


504  YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

cends  all,  they  certainly  give  beyond  all.  The 
easy  goodness  of  a  'subscription'  sums  up  the 
charity  of  the  rich ;  nights  of  long  watching,  days 
of  tender  nursing,  neglect  of  work,  loan  of  bed 
ding  and  clothing,  and  a  hundred  other  precious 
little  bounties,  make  up,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
untrumpeted  munificence  of  those  who  have  noth 
ing  to  give." 

"  What  would  the  poor  do  without  the  poor  ?" 
repeated  young  Ben,  half  sorrowfully,  to  himself. 

"  And  now,  lad,  remember,  I  say  again,"  Uncle 
Ben  added,  "  poverty  and  suffering  '  ye  shall  ever 
have  with  you;'  so  do  you  have  always  a  sense 
that  three  fourths  of  the  human  race  are  born  to 
want  and  hardship ;  do  you  have  a  sense,  in  the 
midst  of  the  misery  that  encompasses  you  like 
the  very  air  you  breathe,  that  the  poor  are  God's 
own  poor — that  the  bitter  heritage  is  theirs  for 
some  inscrutable  purpose ;  and  do  you  have  still 
a  sense  that,  if  you  can  give  no  worldly  gift,  at 
least  you  have  it  ever  in  your  power  to  give  the 
infinitely  higher  one  of  the  sweet  comfort  of  com 
miseration,  and  that  you  are  a  better  and  more 
hopeful  man  if  you  cast  but  a  wish  that  it  were 
otherwise  into  the  treasury." 

"  I  will  have  this  sense,  uncle,"  the  earnest-na- 
tured  boy  cried  out;  "for,  now  that  you  have 
given  it  me,  it  shall  never  die  in  me,  depend  upon 
it." 

"That's  hard  and  hazardous  to  promise,  Ben," 
added  the  other;  "the  cold  shade  of  worldly  pride 
can  soon  numb  it,  and  make  the  fine  nerve  as 
callous  as  the  veins  in  marble.  Beware  of  worldly 
success,  lad,  for  this,  in  most  cases,  is  moral  failure. 
It  wants  but  little  dignity  of  soul  to  fail  well,  for 
sorrow  and  trouble  generally  chasten  the  heart, 
so  as  to  enable  even  a  small  man  to  play  the 
martyr  in  a  small  way ;  but  to  succeed  grandly  is 


A  PEEP   INTO   THE   HEART.  505 

the  most  trying  thing  even  to  a  hero's  nature. 
The  little  ant-hill  on  which  we  have  raised  our 
selves  looks  so  like  a  mountain  under  the  micro 
scope  of  our  own  vanity,  and  we  are  so  prone  to 
believe  that  the  vantage-ground  has  been  built 
up  by  our  own  spade  and  shovel  rather  than  by 
the  million  little  busy  things  forever  laboring 
around  us — so  ready  to  look  at  these  little  labor 
ers  through  the  wrong  end  of  the  telescope,  and 
see  them,  infinitely  smaller  than  they  are — so  quick 
to  believe  that  the  old  friends  whom  we  have  out- 
jockeyed  in  the  world's  race  have  but  sorry  hacks 
to  carry  them — so  proud  to  stick  the  trumpery 
'plate'  we  have  won  in  the  '  heat'  upon  our  own 
sideboard,  and  flash  it  in  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar — 
and  so  credulous  to  believe,  with  the  mythologists 
of  old,  that  it's  only  the  really  great  men  that  are 
raised  to  the  glory  of  the  '  stars,'  and  to  find  our 
gods  merely  in  the  stellar  world  of  humanity — we 
are  so  disposed  to  do  all  this,  I  say,  that  it  is  dif 
ficult  to  find  the  successful  man  who  advances 
through  life,  like  the  rower  who  understands  the 
right  use  of  a  scull,  with  his  eyes  continually  fixed 
upon  the  scenes  he  has  left  behind,  and  his  back 
turned,  even  while  he  is  ever  respectful,  to  all  that 
lies  ahead  of  him." 

Uncle  Ben's  stanch  Puritan  spirit  rang  out  in 
every  word  of  the  speech  as  he  uttered  it,  and  it 
was  manifest  in  the  tone  and  temper  with  which 
he  spoke  that  the  hatred  of  servility,  and  the  love 
of  hearty,  but  not  arrogant  independence,  was  the 
marked  characteristic  of  his  nature. 

Presently  he  wound  up  with,  "  There,  Ben,  we 
have  pretty  well  cropped  out  our  subject,  for  it 
would  be  idle,  after  what  I  have  said  to  you  about 
the  feeling  of  sympathy,  underlying  as  it  does  al 
most  the  whole  of  our  unselfish  emotions,  to  do 
other  than  enumerate  to  you  the  feelings  which 


500  YOUNG    BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

I  have  grouped  under  this  second  division  of  the 
class.  Let  me  just  run  over  the  heads  of  them, 
and  then  an  end.  Thus  we  find  not  only  a  pleas 
ure  in  sympathizing  with  the  sufferings  of  others, 
or  rather  in  relieving  or  comforting  the  sufferers, 
but  also  a  pleasure  in  rejoicing  at  the  happiness 
of  our  fellow-creatures,  and  this  proceeds  from 
what  is  termed  the  emotion  of  congratulation ; 
that  is  to  say,  of  feeling  the  same  gratefulness  at 
any  good  which  occurs  to  others  as  they  them 
selves  do.  Then,  again,  we  are  capable  of  finding 
a  savage  delight  in  exulting  and  triumphing  over 
the  downfall  of  those  we  detest,  even  as  we  can 
derive  pleasure  from  the  worldly  success  of  those 
in  whom  we  feel  an  interest ;  so,  too,  we  can  be 
even  base  enough  to  feel  a  charm  in  gloating  over 
the  miseries  and  afflictions  of  such  as  we  believe 
to  be  our  enemies,  and  which  is,  as  it  were,  the 
savage  sympathy  of  malevolence  rather  than  the 
tender  pity  of  the  benevolent  feelings.  These, 
Ben,  with  the  exception  of  the  emotion  of  envy, 
or  covetous  longing,  which  we  feel  for  those  pos 
sessions  of  others  to  which  we  fancy  we  have  no 
claim,  and  that  of  jealousy,  or  savage  greed  of 
those  possessions  to  which  we  fancy  we  have  a 
claim,  or  to  which  we  aspire  —  these,  I  believe, 
make  up  the  whole  of  the  feelings  under  consid 
eration,  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  exhaust  the  matter 
of  the  entire  moral  emotions — selfish  as  well  as 
unselfish — themselves." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE     STILL     SMALL    VOICE. 

"  I  SUPPOSE  you're  going  to  tell  me  now,  uncle, 
about  the  prison  and  the  poor-house,  and  to  show 


THE   STILL   SMALL   VOICE.  507 

me  what  are  the  duties  of  life,  just  as  you  did  with 
the  amusements,  you  know  ?"  observed  young 
Benjamin,  as  he  shook  the  crumbs  from  the  dinner- 
cloth  into  the  fender,  and  proceeded  to  fold  it. 

"  No,  I'm  not,  lad,"  the  elder  Benjamin  answer 
ed,  stretching  his  legs,  and  leaning  well  back  in 
his  chair,  as  if  he  was  settling  down  for  a  doze 
rather  than  a  chat.  "  We're  not  ready  for  the 
lesson  yet,  boy.  Before  we  try  to  read  Greek,  we 
must  learn  the  Greek  alphabet,  and  as  yet  we're 
only  half  way  through  the  A  B  C  of  morality." 

"  What !  is  there  more  to  do  about  the  moral 
pleasures,  then,  uncle  ?"  cried  the  little  fellow, 
somewhat  disappointed. 

"  Yes,  more,"  rejoined  the  teacher  ;  "  a  little 
more  schooling  of  the  heart,  Ben,  and  then  you 
will  be  ready  to  appreciate  the  moral  of  the  long 
story.  Up  to  this  time,  lad,  we  have  been  dealing 
with  the  pleasures  that  arise  from  the  perception 
of  some  good  or  evil  accruing  to  ourselves  or  oth 
ers.  But  there  is  something  more  than  good  and 
evil  in  the  moral  world :  there  is  the  little  matter 
of  right  and  wrong,  boy,  and  that  is  a  nut  that 
needs  good  sound  teeth  to  crack,  I  can  tell  you. 
Now  if  I  were  to  ask  you,  Ben,  what  is  right  and 
what  is  wrong,  you'd  begin  by  saying — " 

"  Now  just  let  me  speak  for  myself,  sir,"  inter 
rupted  the  boy,  playfully,  as  he  began  to  spread 
his  sketch  and  colors  before  him  again ;  "  let  me 
see.  Well,  I  should  say  it  was  right  to  speak  the 
truth,  and  wrong  to  tell  a  lie  ;  that  it  was  wrong 
to  steal,  and  right  to  give  every  man  his  due,  as 
father  says — and  so  on,  you  know." 

"  Ay,  I  knew  you  would,"  returned  the  uncle ; 
"  and  yet  you've  told  me  nothing,  you  little  gos 
ling,  about  what  is  either  right  or  wrong  in  itself. 
You've  only  informed  me  that  John  is  a  man, 
when  I  didn't  want  to  be  made  acquainted  with 


508  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

what  kind  of  an  animal  John  was,  but  merely  with 
what  class  of  creatures  a  man  belonged  to.  What, 
I  say  again,  is  right  per  se — right  in  itself — right 
in  the  abstract,  as  the  schoolmen  say  ?" 

"  Well,  I  should  say  that's  right  which  isn't 
wrong,  then !"  cried  the  eager  lad,  endeavoring  to 
make  something  like  a  guess  at  the  riddle. 

"  Yes,  but  what's  wrong  ?  that  which  isn't 
right,  I  suppose  you'd  say ;  and  so  there  we 
should  keep  shuffling  our  feet  backward  and  for 
ward,  like  soldiers  halting  on  a  march,  and  yet 
never  advancing  a  step ;"  and  as  the  old  man  said 
the  words,  he  shook  his  head  and  smiled  at  the 
innocence  of  the  puzzled  youngster.  "  Well,  lad, 
let's  give  you  a  helping  hand  up  the  ship's  side 
before  we  weigh  anchor,  and  tell  you  that  right  is 
literally  what  is  ruled;  what  is  ordained;  what 
is  straightforward,  or  done  directly r,  in  obedience 
to  some  command." 

"  Well,  but,  uncle,"  argued  the  plain-spoken  lit 
tle  fellow,  "  if  you  were  to  tell  me  to  go  and  steal, 
as  I  have  heard  you  say  the  gipsy  mother  does  to 
her  child,  immediately  after  it  has  said  its  prayers, 
that  wouldn't  be  right  for  me  to  do ;  and  yet,  if 
I  did  so,  I  should  only  be  acting  in  obedience  to 
a  command,  as  you  say." 

"  It  would  be  right,  lad — " 

"  O — oh,  uncle !"  cried  the  boy,  breaking  into 
the  middle  of  the  sentence. 

"  Right  in  an  unthinking  child,  Ben,"  concluded 
the  godfather ;  "  but  you  know  that  the  command 
would  be  at  variance  with  a  superior  command 
that  we  are  bound  to  listen  to,  above  all  others. 
The  subject,  therefore,  becomes  narrowed  into, 
what  commands  are  we,  like  dutiful  children,  to 
attend  to." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean  uncle,"  said  the 
youngster,  a  little  discomfited. 


THE   STILL    SMALL   VOICE.  509 

"  No  you  don't,  Ben,"  was  the  rejoinder,  "  for, 
remember,  I'm  not  talking  religion  to  yon.  I  am 
merely  endeavoring  to  help  you  to  spell  out  the 
laws  of  the  heart,  lad — the  commands  of  what  is 
called  the  conscience ;  and  I  want  to  let  you  see 
there  are  natural  commandments  as  well  as  spir 
itual  ones,  and  that  the  ordinations  of  nature  are 
and  should  be  the  same  law  to  us  as  even  the  law 
of  the  Bible  itself;  for  law  is  simply  that  which 
is  laid  down,  or  enjoined  for  our  obedience.  The 
laws  of  what  is  called  nature  are  but  the  laws  of 
the  one  great  Lawgiver  after  all,  and  therefore 
must  be  one  and  the  same  law.  The  three  great 
breaches  of  the  various  forms  of  law  in  the  world 
make  the  three  great  human  errors.  Thus  Sin  is 
what  is  contrary  to  divine  law,  or  the  breach  of 
some  religious  commandment  or  ordination  of  the 
great  Ruler  of  all ;  Vice  what  is  contrary  to  some 
moral  law,  or  the  breach  of  some  righteous  com 
mandment  or  ordination  of  nature ;  and  Crime, 
that  which  is  contrary  to  some  social  law,  or  the 
breach  of  some  politic  commandment  or  ordina 
tion  of  the  rulers  of  the  land." 

"  I  see !  I  see !"  again  murmured  the  youth. 

"  Now  some,  I  should  tell  you,  in  all  honesty, 
my  little  man,"  the  elder  Benjamin  continued, 
"have  gainsaid  this  doctrine  I  am  propounding 
to  you,  and  have  urged  that,  if  right  be  mere 
obedience  to  orders,  God,  if  he  had  so  pleased, 
might  have  ordained  a  code  of  laws  the  very  op 
posite  to  that  of  the  Ten  Commandments,  and 
would  it  then  be  right,  they  ask,  to  plunder  and 
slay  ?  But  the  simple  answer,  lad,  is  '  yes ;'  for 
then  we  should  have  been  so  constituted  that 
slaughter  and  pillage  would  have  been  the  one 
great  good  to  us,  even  as  they  are  to  some  war 
ring  nations  in  Christendom  to  this  day.  Never 
theless,  the  All-wise  and  All-merciful  never  could 


510  YOUNG   BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

have  willed  and  ordained  wrong  right,  any  more 
than  he  could  have  willed  two  and  two  to  be  five. 
As  it  is,  however,  it  has  assuredly  been  made  part 
of  the  wise  and  merciful  ordinations  of  nature  not 
only  that  we  should  love  the  man  who  does  a 
benefit,  and  does  it  for  the  pure  sake  of  benefit 
ing,  but  that  we  should  believe  that  the  benefac 
tor  acts  rightly  in  so  doing,  even  as  we  have  been 
made^to  feel  satisfied  that  the  malefactor  does 
what  is  wrong" 

"  Yes,  uncle,  and  you  are  right  too,"  added  lit 
tle  Ben ;  "  right  in  what  you  say,  and  acting  right 
ly  in  saying  it,  because  I  can  feel  how  much  it 
benefits  me." 

"  Well,  then,  Ben,"  the  other  went  on,  "  we  now 
see  what  is  right  and  wrong ;  we  see  that  right, 
morally  speaking,  is  merely" what  is  conformable 
to  the  commands  of  the  conscience,  and  conscience 
is  simply  moral  consciousness — an  intuition  which 
springs  up  within  us  that  certain  human  conduct 
is  contrary  to  the  ordinations  of  nature  immedi 
ately  such  conduct  comes  to  be  judged  by  the 
natural  instincts  of  the  heart.  Moral  right,  then, 
lad,  is  that  which  is  agreeable  to  the  decisions  of 
the  moral  judgment,  and  these  decisions  of  the 
moral  judgment  are  simply  what  are  called  senti 
ments" 

"Why, I  thought, uncle, a  sentiment  was  mere 
ly  an  opinion,"  interposed  young  Ben. 

"  So  it  is,  boy,  an  opinion  begotten  by  a  feel 
ing,"  ran  the  reply,  "  but  it  is  not  a  mere  judicial 
opinion.  I  have,  for  instance,  an  opinion  that  it 
will  rain  to-morrow,  and  that  is  simply  a  purely 
intellectual  opinion,  because  my  intellect  alone  is 
concerned  in  coming  to  the  decision  ;  but  I  have 
an  opinion  also  that  vice  is  hateful,  and  that  is  a 
sentiment,  because  both  the  intellect  and  the  emo 
tions  are  engaged  in  forming  the  judgment." 


THE    STILL    SMALL    VOICE.  511 

"So,"  said  little  Ben,  "a  sentiment  is  an  opin 
ion  begotten  by  a  feeling." 

"  Yes,  Ben ;  we  speak  of  sentimental  novels, 
arid  a  mother's  sentiments  about  her  child,  and  so 
forth,  meaning  thereby  neither  passion,  emotion, 
nor  temper,  but  merely  the  opinions  engendered 
by  such  emotions  and  tempers,"  explained  the 
tutor.  "And  now,  having  pointed  out  to  you 
the  pleasures  of  the  emotions  themselves,  I  shall 
proceed  at  once  to  show  you  what  are  the  delights 
of  the  sentiments,  though  even  before  doing  this 
I  should  say  a  few  words  to  you  on  the  world  of 
opinion  in  which  we  live;  for  the  moral  senti 
ments  are  divisible  into  three  classes,  like  the 
emotions  from  which  they  spring,  and  may  be  de 
scribed  as,  (1.)  Sentiments  engendered  in  us  by 
our  opinion  of  ourselves ;  (2.)  Sentiments  engen 
dered  in  us  by  our  opinion  of  others ;  and,  (3.) 
Sentiments  engendered  in  us  by  others'  opinion 
of  us.  Hence  you  perceive  how  much  of  human 
happiness  depends  upon  mere  opinion,  and  that 
we  live  in  a  world  not  only  of  sensation,  thought, 
and  emotion,  but  of  opinion  also." 

"  So  we  do,"  chimed  in  the  boy ;  "  and  yet  I've 
heard  people  say  they  don't  care  about  mere  opin 
ions,  and  father,  I  know,  objects  to  sentiment." 

"  Your  father  objects,  Ben,  as  wise  men  do," 
urged  the  elder  Benjamin,  "  to  that  affectation  of 
feeling  which  merely  chatters  sentiment — that  is 
to  say,  which  delivers  the  opinions  of  the  emo 
tions,  without  having  any  corresponding  emotions 
to  justify  them." 

THE   WOELD    OF    OPINION. 

"  Now  this  world  of  opinion,  my  son,  is  as  mar 
velous  as  the  solid- external  world,  or  the  fairy- 
like  internal  ideal  world  in  which  we  pass  our 
lives.  It  is  this  which  makes  the  Tomkinses  live 


512  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

in  continual  terror  of  the  Jenkinses ;  this  which 
makes  people  clothe  themselves  in  the  most  un 
seemly  costumes  at  most  unseasonable  periods ; 
it  is  for  this  that  people  furnish  their  houses ;  for 
this  they  wear  their  jewels ;  for  this  they  exhibit 
their  plate,  and  dress  their  lackeys  up  like  ma 
caws  ;  and  for  this  they  keep  their  carriages :  for 
all  is  done,  not  to  please  themselves,  not  to  minis 
ter  to  their  own  comforts,  nor  to  add  to  their  own 
happiness,  but  merely  to  please  their  neighbors ; 
and  yet  not  to  please  them  either,  as  true  kind 
ness  loves  to  please  others  for  the  mere  pleasure 
it  finds  in  pleasing,  but  to  please  them  as  actors 
strive  to  please,  for  the  hollow  vanity  of  the  mere 
clapping  of  the  hands  they  get  from  the  specta 
tors.  And  when  we  think  that  if  there  were  only 
the  same  pains  taken  to  benefit  others  as  there  is 
to  please  them,  with  the  view  of  extorting  the 
small  encouragement  of  a  pat  on  the  back  from 
the  beholders,  how  different  a  world  it  might  be ! 
why,  then  we  can  hardly  help  believing  that  the 
love  of  applause  has  turned  this  same  world  of 
ours  into  a  playhouse,  where  scenery  and  decora 
tions,  dress  and  mimicry,  are  the  chief  attractions 
of  the  time.  Again,  lad,  it  is  for  this  mere  opin 
ion  of  people,  the  majority  of  whom  can  never  be 
known  or  seen,  or  even  heard  of,  that  the  author 
writes,  the  poet  weaves  his  verses,  the  artist  paints 
his  pictures,  and  the  warrior  risks  his  life,  even  as 
it  is  this  same  public  opinion  that  the  truly  right 
eous  man  gives  no  heed  to,  and  the  martyr  braves. 
Again,  Ben,  look  at  the  tyranny  of  fashion,  which 
is  only  public  opinion  expressed  on  the  small  mat 
ter  of  dress.  Why,  if  Nero  had  passed  an  edict 
condemning  women  to  compress  their  ribs,  for 
the  greater  part  of  their  lives,  in  an  iron-bound 
corselet,  think  how  historians  would  have  raved 
about  the  devilry  of  the  ingenious  inhumanity; 


THE   STILL   SMALL   VOICE.  513 

and  yet,  if  one  fashionable  fool  thinks  it  the  per 
fection  of  human  beauty  to  cut  her  body  into  two 
compartments  like  a  wasp,  and  to  make  them 
seem  as  if  united  by  a  mere  ligature  of  a  waist, 
instantly  the  whole  legion  of  fashionable  fools 
voluntarily  condemn  themselves  to  the  same  tor 
ture.  One  idiot,  again,  parts  his  hair  down  the 
middle,  and  then  immediately  every  other  idiot 
in  the  world  falls  to  halving  his  locks  in  the  same 
manner ;  one  monkey  trims  his  whiskers  this  way, 
and  instantly  the  whole  cageful  of  monkeys  coax 
theirs  into  the  same  contortions  ;  one  thinks  it  the 
acme  of  elegance  to  wear  his  hands  in  his  breeches 
pockets,  and  the  next  day  nobody  can  keep  their 
fingers  out  of  the  sides  of  their  small-clothes. 
Surely,  Ben,  that  little  extra  spoonful  of  brains 
which  man  has  had  given  to  him,  to  make  him 
something  more  than  an  ape,  has  been  wasted 
upon  the  majority  of  skulls ;  for,  as  we  laugh  at 
the  ortolan,  that  is  fattened  by  being  made  to  feed 
six  times  a  day,  by  means  of  half  a  dozen  sham 
sunrises  per  diem  in  the  shape  of  a  lantern  thrust 
every  four  hours  in  at  a  hole  into  a  darkened 
chamber,  so  these  people  of  fashion  are  as  silly  as 
the  poor  deliciously-fat  birds,  ever  mistaking  the 
light  of  a  farthing  rush-light  for  that  of  the  true 
glory  of  the  day,  and  tricked,  by  their  love  of  pal 
try  splendor,  into  the  exaggeration  of  their  bulk, 
only  to  tickle  the  taste  of  the  voluptuary." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  add 
ed,  "  Nevertheless,  Ben,  this  same  world  of  opin 
ion  can  work  its  marvels  as  well  as  its  follies.  It 
was  this  that  snatched  Martin  Luther  from  the 
stake,  and  this  that  drove  the  bigoted  James  from 
the  English  throne ;  it  is  this,  too,  that  keeps  so 
ciety  in  check  far  better  than  any  statute-book 
could  ever  accomplish.  Farther,  it  is  merely  the 
still  small  voice  within  us — the  outspeaking  of  the 
K  K 


514  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

heart  itself— that  makes  the  murderer's  sleepless 
ness  so  terrible  to  him ;  and  it  is  this  small  voice 
again  that  makes  the  martyr  find  a  consolation 
even  in  the  flames." 

"  Why,  it  seems,  uncle,  as  if  there  were  two 
sides  to  every  one  of  our  feelings,"  advanced  the 
youngster ;  "  for  no  sooner  do  you  show  me  that 
what  you  called  ma-ma-malevolence  is  bad,  than 
you  begin  to  let  me  see  how  good  it  can  be,  when 
properly  used,  to  overcome  the  difficulties  that 
plague  us." 

"  Yes,  Ben,"  rejoined  the  uncle,  "as  even  benev 
olence  itself  may  run  into  maudlin  dotage." 

SENTIMENTS   ENGENDERED   IN   US   BY    OUK    OWN 
OPINION    OF    OURSELYES. 

"  Now,  my  patient  little  listener,  we  will  begin 
with  the  consideration  of  the  first  class  of  the 
moral  sentiments,  and  what  did  I  tell  you  they 
were,  Ben  ?" 

"  Here  it  is,  uncle,"  cried  the  eager  boy,  for  he 
had  jotted  it  down  again  upon  the  paper  before 
him ;  "  sentiments  engendered  in  us  by  our  own 
opinion  of  ourselbes" 

"  Just  so,  Ben,"  nodded  Uncle  Benjamin ;  "  en 
gendered,  mark!  for  there  is  always  a  certain 
amount  of  moral  criticism,  of  pondering  over  and 
scrutinizing  our  own  conduct,  preceding  the  de 
velopment  of  the  sentiment  in  our  bosoms ;  and 
then,  according  as  AVC  get  to  think  well  or  meanly 
of  ourselves,  according  as  we  pluck  up  our  shirt 
collars,  and  smile  blandly  at  the  image  of  ourself 
in  the  ideal  looking-glass,  or  according  as  we 
shake  our  head  and  scowl  at  the  reflection,  so 
does  the  opinion  that  we  form  of  ourselves  blend 
with  a  certain  affection  of  our  nature,  and  become 
a  sentiment  of  either  self -approbation  or  disappro- 
bation^  as  the  case  may  be.  Nor  does  the  process 


THE    STILL   SMALL   VOICE.  515 

end  here ;  for  this  sentiment  of  approbation  or 
disapprobation  unites  again  with  the  natural  lik 
ings  and  dislikings  of  our  natures,  and  develops, 
in  its  turn,  an  emotion  of  some  form  of  lasting 
love  or  hate  for  our  own  self,  and  thus  we  get  to 
feel  some  one  of  those  delicate  shades  and  grada 
tions  of  the  affectionate  emotions  that  I  before 
showed  you  make  up  the  chromatic  scale  of  love; 
the  result  of  the  entire  mental  process  being  the 
development  of  a  feeling  of  self-respect,  self-regard, 
self-esteem,  self-admiration,  or  self-honor,  even  up 
to  that  form  of  self-worship  and  self-glorification 
which  comes  of  self-veneration." 

"  Oh !"  exclaimed  the  little  fellow,  delighted  to 
be  brought  back  again  to  the  chain  of  love,  "  how 
plain  and  easy  it  seems  to  come,  uncle !" 

"Ay,  boy,  it  is  easy  to  put  the  puzzle  map  to 
gether  when  you  are  well  up  in  the  geography 
of  the  countries  it  relates  to,  but  it  is  no  child's 
play,  I  can  tell  you,  to  make  the  map  itself.  It 
requires  many_  long  voyages  of  discovery,  and 
many  observations  to  be  taken,  before  the  longi 
tude  and  latitude,  and  the  bearings  of  the  differ 
ent  points  of  the  human  mind  and  heart  can  be 
settled,  and  before  the  thoughts  and  feelings  can 
be  traced  down  as  plainly  as  the  land  itself  upon 
a  chart  for  our  guidance.  But  oh !  these  tropes 
and  figures,  Ben,  they  are  the  true  flowers  of 
speech,  that  always  lead  us  children  out  of  the 
hard,  dry,  dusty  road  before  us.  Now,  of  all  the 
different  forms  of  self-love,  my  boy,"  he  proceed 
ed,  "  the  only  one  that  a  truly  wise  and  great  man 
can  ever  allow  himself  to  be  seduced  into  by  the 
witchery  of  his  own  conceit  is  the  one  at  the  very 
bottom  of  the  scale,  viz.,  self-respect,  and  which  is 
only  just  one  rung  of  the  ladder  above  utter  in 
difference.  The  rest,  lad,  are  all  personal  vanity 
and  coxcombry ;  for  your  fool  has  ever  the  crest 


51G  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

of  the  coxcomb  for  his  coat  of  arms.  We  might 
as  well  be  down  on  our  spiritual  knees,  worship 
ing  the  mud  idol  of  our  own  selves,  after  we  have 
tricked  the  dirty  deity  out  in  all  the  tinsel  and 
trumpery  jewelry  of  man's  vanity — as  well  do  this 
as  be  forever  playing  the  'fon,'  like  the  spoony 
boy  Narcissus,  and  making  sheep's-eyes  at  our 
own  florid  portrait,  as  imaged  in  the  shallow  ba 
sin  of  the  fountain  of  our  own  conceit.  Depend 
upon  it,  lad,  a  man  that  knows  himself  thoroughly 
knows  that  there  is  no  beauty  in  him  when  he 
comes  to  be  turned  inside  out,  for  then  there  is 
such  a  hideous  display  of  stomach  and  bile  that 
the  human  anatomy  is  by  no  means  pleasant  to 
behold.  To  see  our  own  fetch  at  any  time,  Ben, 
should  set  the  mind  thinking  how  we  should  look 
in  the  felon's  dock  at  that  great  time  when  there 
is  to  be  no  special  pleading,  but  all  are  to  be 
judged  as  they  really  are  and  might  have  been. 
The  felon's  dock,  boy,  tries  the  handsomest  coun 
tenance  ;  and  rely  on  it  that  many  of  those  that 
seem  to  have  angel's  faces  now  will  look  hardly  a 
whit  better  or  fairer  than  felons  under  the  search 
ing  glance  of  the  Great  Judge's  scrutiny. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  knock  all  the  self-love  out  of 
you,  my  little  man,"  he  added,  "but  I  say,  never 
let  your  self-regard  go  beyond  the  bounds  of  self- 
respect,  even  if  you  can  honestly  mount  so  high. 
And  beware  of  self-admiration  and  self-adulation 
as  you  would  wish  to  ward  off  madness  and  do 
tage.  I  do  not  wish  to  teach  you  that  you  are  a 
born  devil,  my  dear  boy,  for  little  children  have 
been  said  by  Him  who  knew  them  best  to  be  as 
pure  as  the  kingdom  of  heaven ;  but  the  misfor 
tune  is,  the  mirror  grows  tarnished  by  age,  and 
soon  ceases  to  reflect  the  light  of  the  skies.  I  do 
not  want  you  to  believe  there  is  no  hope  for  yon, 
for  I  tell  you,  lad,  that  you  are  ever  hopeful,  and 


THE   STILL   SMALL   VOICE.  51T 

that  you  can  never  be  so  utterly  good,  nor  so  ut 
terly  bad  either,  that  there  may  not  be  hope  of 
you  still.  Think  of  what  you  are,  and  forever  con 
trast  the  image  with  what  you  might  be.  Have 
faith  in  the  possible  goodness  of  your  own  nature, 
even  while  you  have  a  consciousness  of  the  posi 
tive  shortcomings — the  meanness  and  baseness  of 
it ;  have  ever  before  you  a  pattern  self  for  your 
self  to  copy,  and  be  forever  comparing  your  own 
self  with  your  own  model  nature.  Let  the  moral 
looking-glass  reflect  both  back  and  front :  look 
back,  and  have  a  sense  of  what  a  shapeless,  soul 
less,  bodily  lump  you  are ;  and  then  look  front 
ward,  and  see  God's  image  stamped  upon  your 
features ;  and  after  all,  shake  hands  with  your 
self,  and  pledge  your  honor  to  yourself  that  you 
will  still  strive  and  struggle  to  be  the  fine,  up 
right,  and  fair-faced  fellow  you  may  be,  and  not 
the  cringing  and  limping  moral  hunchback  which 
honest  retrospection  shows  you  are.  Therefore,! 
say  again  to  you,  Ben,  be  ever  self-respectful ;  lift 
your  hat  and  bow  your  head  to  your  own  supe 
rior  nature  —  that  nature  which  is,  and  always 
should  be  in  advance  of  you ;  but  never  be  self- 
enamored,  and  rather  pass  by  your  other  self  with 
out  so  much  as  an  approving  nod,  and  hang  your 
head  in  very  shame  at  the  shabbiness  of  the  con 
temptible  scoundrel  directly  you  are  alive  to  the 
dirtiness  of  your  friend.  Self-respect  and  self- 
faith,  Ben,  these  are  the  only  self-sentiments  that 
can  be  honestly  encouraged  or  even  countenanced 
in  the  heart  of  man ;  with  the  exception,  indeed, 
of  what  is  termed  self-approbation — but  certain- 
tainly  not  setf-satisf action — at  our  own  conduct." 

"You  may  depend  on  my  minding  what  you 
say,  uncle,"  the  pupil  assured  the  teacher. 

"  This  sentiment  of  self-approbation,  on  the  con 
trary,"  the  other  went  on, "  is  the  immediate  re- 


518  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

suit  of  the  operations  of  the  conscience  or  moral 
judgment,  for  right  and  wrong  are  but  the  true 
and  the  false  of  the  heart ;  and  the  same  faculty 
which  compares,  weighs,  deliberates,  and  determ 
ines  upon  the  rectitude  or  error  of  intellectual 
propositions,  also  comes  to  the  decisions  upon 
the  propriety  or  impropriety  of  human  conduct. 
Hence  the  feeling  of  approbation  that  ensues  in 
the  mind  directly  we  have  an  intuitive  perception 
that  such  an  act  is  right  ^  is  tantamount  to  the  feel 
ing  of  conviction  which  follows  immediately  we 
have  an  intuition  that  a  certain  statement  is  true; 
and  this  explains  why  the  morals  of  nations  dif 
fer,  in  the  same  manner  as  different  countries  have 
different  kinds  of  truths,  and  even  different  tastes, 
and  that  with  one  and  the  same  nerves,  brain,  and 
heart.  For  as  it  is  not  true  that  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  truth,  so  it  is  not  right  for  skeptics  to  as 
sert  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  rectitude  in  the 
world ;  since  in  the  same  manner  as  it  is  demon 
strable  from  the  very  nature  of  the  forms  of  things 
that  all  the  angles  of  a  triangle  must  be  equal  to 
two  right  angles,  so  is  it  morally  certain,  from  the 
very  constitution  of  our  innate  sympathies  and 
antipathies,  that  it  is  impossible  the  benefactor 
could  ever  be  disapproved  of  for  benefiting  oth 
ers,  for  the  pure  sake  of  the  benefit  conferred,  es 
pecially  when  it  is  felt  that  he  has  violated  no  su 
perior  claim  in  so  doing." 

"  So,  then,  it  is  as  plain  to  see  what  is  right  and 
wrong,  as  it  is  to  tell  what  is  true  and  false,"  mur 
mured  the  younger  Benjamin,  still  pondering  on 
the  problem. 

"As  plain  when  the  matter  is  self-evident,"  was 
the  reply,  "  and  yet  as  difficult  when  the  relations 
are  involved.  '  Which  was  first,'  says  Plutarch, 
'  the  bird  or  the  egg  ?' — who  can  riddle  the  truth 
out  of  that  vexed" question  ?  So,  in  like  manner, 


THE   STILL   SMALL   VOICE. 


510 


we  may  ask,  which  is  first,  country  or  child  ?  Bru 
tus  preferred  his  country ;  should  he  have  prefer 
red  his  child?" 

The  boy  was  about  to  take  up  the  gauntlet, 
and  have  a  tilt  with  the  old  man  in  favor  of  'Hhe 
child,"  but  the  uncle  cut  him  short  by  crying, 
"  To  the  point,  boy !  to  the  point !    Now  this  feel 
ing  of  self-approbation  is  the  all-sufficient  reward 
that  good  and  great  men  work  for.     It  is  only 
the  little  moral  fop  that  wants  and  craves  for  the 
approbation  of  others.     Indeed,  according  as  a 
man  loves  the  applause  of  his  own  heart  or  that 
of  others,  so  are  we  enabled  to  gauge  the  great 
ness  or  littleness  of  his  soul.     The  moral  hero 
listens  only  to  the  voice  within  him,  for  this  he 
knows  is  but  the  echo  of  the  divine  decrees— the 
whispering  of  an  angel's  tongue  prompting  him 
to  the  right  course — the  trumpet  of  the  unseen 
herald  proclaiming  the  law  of  nature  to^hirn,  and 
crying  '  le  roi  le  veutf  and  so  the  cheering  of  his 
own  heart  is  like  the  music  of  the  spheres  to  his 
conscience — a  soft  mellifluent  concord  flowing  out 
of  the  very  harmony  of  things.     But  as  for  the 
applause  of  others,  what  is  it  but  the  poor  actor's 
reward  ?     And  he  who  acts  his  part  well — who 
mimics  the  man  of  probity,  honor,  and  loving- 
kindness  to  the  life — who  can  play  the  fine  walk 
ing  gentleman  with  propriety  in  front  of  the  foot 
lights,  even  though  he  be  the  dirtiest  and  shabbi 
est  of  varlets  when  unseen  of  men,  is  sure  to  get 
a  round  or  two  for  the  clap-trap  moral  sentiment 
that  he  invariably  utters  as  he  quits  the  scene. 
Be  assured,  lad,  there  are  two  standards  of  right 
and  wrong,  of  dignity  and  villainy — an  external 
and  an  internal  one ;  and  that  the  man  who  con 
forms  to  the  goodness  of  men  is  the  petty  moral 
coxcomb,  tricked  in  all  the  canting  fashion  of  the 
tjme — the  vagabond  waif  and  stray  that  always 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

goes  with  the  current,  and  ready  even  for  canni 
balism,  if  human  haunches  came  to  be  thought  as 
thoroughly  in  good  taste  as  those  of  venison ; 
while  the  man  who  studies  only  the  goodness  of 
his  own  heart,  and  squares  his  conduct  with  his 
conscience,  has  all  the  sturdy,  stalwart  element  of 
the  honest  old  martyr  in  his  bosom— of  the  faith 
ful  servant  who  likes  always  to  have  his  orders 
direct  from  his  master." 

"I  can  understand  now,  uncle,  what  is  meant  by 
listening  to  the  voice  of  one's  own  conscience," 
the  godson  observed,  "  and  shall  strive  to  have 
always  an  easy  one  myself;  and  I  know  mother 
has  often  told  me  how  people  suffer  from  remorse 
after  a  wicked  act,  and  that  it  is  only  their  own 
guilty  Conscience,  as  she  says,  upbraiding  them 
for  their  wickedness." 

"  And  that  brings  me,  lad,  to  the  last  part  of 
our  present  theme,"  the  godfather  added,  "  name 
ly,  to  the  varied  feelings  of  pleasure  or  pain  which 
are  developed  in  the  bosom  directly  we  come  to 
reflect  upon  our  own  conduct,  and  to  approve  or 
disapprove  of  what  we  have  done.  Some  time 
ago  I^told  you  that  many  of  the  emotions  sub 
sided  into  a  subdued  and  more  or  less  permanent 
form  of  pain  or  pleasure,  which  are  called  l  tem 
pers  ;'  and  so  with  the  sentiments,  Ben :  many  of 
them  have  a  tendency  to  develop  a  vivid  feeling, 
which  has  all  the  character  of  an  emotion ;  but 
with  this  simple  distinction,  that  there  is  always  a 
sense  of  right  and  wrong,  approbation  and  disap 
probation,  connected  with  it,  rather  than  merely 
good  and  evil.  Such  states  of  mind  may  be  called 
moods,  for  they  have  also  many  of  the  character 
istics  of  temper.  Of  these  moods,  the  feelings  of 
self-complacency  and  remorse  may  be  cited  as  in 
stances,  proceeding  as  they  do  from  certain  senti 
ments  which  are  engendered  by  our  own  opinion 


THE   STILL    SMALL   VOICE.  521 

of  ourselves ;  so  anger  and  gratitude  are  the  moods 
of  mind  begotten  by  the  sentiments  engendered 
by  our  opinion  of  others'  conduct  toward  us,  and 
thus  we  come  to  speak  of  an  angry  mood  and  a 
remorseful  mood,  even  as  there  is  again  the  proud 
mood,  or  the  humble  mood  of  mind,  which  arises 
whenever  we  compare  our  conduct,  our  gifls}<  or 
our  possessions  with  those  of  others,  and  think 
ourselves  the  better  or  worse  for  them  than  they. 
The  delight  of  the  feeling  of  self-complacency 
which  springs  up  within  us  whenever  we  review 
our  past  conduct,  and  feel  that  we  have  violated 
no  tie  of  kindred,  broken  no  law  of  nature  in  our 
acts,  but  that  we  have  fulfilled  some  little  of  the 
duty  that  was  imposed  upon  us  when  we  were 
ordained  to  form  part  of  the  great  human  chain, 
each  link  forever  helping  and  being  helped  on  by 
the  rest  through  life — this  is  the  exquisite  conso 
lation  of  an  easy  conscience,  which  all  allow  to  be 
the  very  summum  bonum  of  existence — that  fine 
foretaste  of  heavenly  enjoyment  which  follows 
the  consciousness  of  having  done  one  good  act — 
of  having  foregone  some  little  pleasure,  suffered 
some  little  misery  for  the  sake  of  another's  hap 
piness — of  having  rendered  back  some  fraction  of 
those  gifts  which  we  hold  on  trust  for  the  good 
of  our  fellows.     This  is  given  us  as  the  liberal  and 
honestly-earned  wages  of  good  work  in  this  world, 
whereas  the  applause  of  men  is  but  the  petty  prize 
held  out  as  a  bribe  for  sorry  workmen  to  try  and 
work  better.     To  strive  to  win  the  applause  of 
our  neighbors,  however,  for  the  mere  sake  of  the 
trumpery  vanity  of  the  cheering  voices,  without 
doing  the  good  for  which  alone  the  applause  is 
honestly  due,  is  to  endeavor  to  trick  the  pay 
masters  into  paying  the  wages  without  doing  the 
work  at  all.     This  is  the  true  cheatery  and  infamy 
of  modern  society — the  obtaining  of  moral  credit 


YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

under  false  pretenses — the  moral  swindling  that 
is  daily  practiced  by  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor, 
gentleman  and  sweep.  Nevertheless,  though  we 
may  cheat  others,  lad,  we  can  not  well  trick  our 
selves.  We  know  our  ingrained  meanness,  even 
though  a  hundred  charity-dinners  toast  and  huzza 
at  our  magnanimity ;  and  even  if  the  trickster  be 
caught  in  his  own  trap,  and  be  himself  tricked  by 
the  speciousness  of  the  hollow  plaudits  into  the 
conceit  that  he  is  a  bright  grain  of  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  assuredly  the  time  will  come  when  the  de 
lirium  of  the  fever  shall  pass  away,  and  the  soul 
shall  be  roused  by  an  angel's  trumpet  out  of  the 
long  trance  that  has  been  on  it,  and  see  itself  as  in 
a  black  mirror,  without  a  speck  of  color  to  give  a 
meretricious  tone  to  the  hard  lines  and  ugly  forms 
of  the  picture." 

Young  Ben  stopped  painting  as  his  uncle  halt 
ed  a  minute  on  coming  to  a  resting-place  in  his 
discourse ;  but  the  little  fellow  merely  looked  up 
to  assure  the  old  man  that  he  was  still  ready  for 
his  words. 

"  Remorse,  Ben,  I  should  tell  you,  is  not  a  nec 
essary  and  immediate  consequence  of  iniquity. 
A  dog  has  no  conscience,  lad,  and  a  man  may  live 
the  life  of  a  dog ;  be  as  savage  and  remorseless 
as  a  blood-hound,  or  as  pampered  and  inoffensive 
as  a  lapdog,  and  yet  be  as  unabashed  as  the  mas 
tiff  or  the  poodle  after  all.  To  develop  conscience, 
calm  and  patient  reflection  is  requisite;  and  if 
there  be  neither  time  nor  humor  for  this,  of  course 
the  great  judging  principle  can  never  pass  sen 
tence,  since  the  culprit  has  escaped  trial.  Never 
theless,  if  we  be  really  something  more  than  dogs 
— if  we  have  a  principle  of  volition  within  us — a 
principle  that  transcends  organism,  since  its  office 
is  to  be  ever  at  war  with  Ihe  mere  organic  in 
stincts  of  our  nature,  and  if  the  dumb  beasts  have 


THE   STILL   SMALL   VOICE.  523 

only  these  same  organic  instincts  to  guide  them, 
surely  we  do  not  die  the  death  of  dogs ;  and  then, 
how  shall  offended  justice  be  filched  of  its  due  ? 
Remorse  may  not  come  for  a  time ;  it  may  re 
main  as  deacl  in  us  as  the  faculty  of  perceiving 
light  and  color  did  in  the  born-blind  boy  till  ho 
was  couched  by  Cheselden ;  but  when  we  see — 
when  the  nine  days'  puppyhood  of  human  life 
has  passed  away,  and  our  eyes  are  fairly  opened, 
and  we  come  to  behold  ourselves  as  we  really  are, 
why  then  remorse  shall  burst  upon  the  head  like 
a  storm,  as  assuredly  as  the  thunder  after  exces 
sive  heat." 

SENTIMENTS   ENGENDERED    BY    OUR    OPINION    OF 
OTHERS. 

"We  now  come  to  the  sentiments  engendered 
by  our  opinion  of  others,  don't  we,  uncle  ?"  asked 
little  Ben,  as  he  turned  to  his  paper,  and  refreshed 
his  memory  with  the  notes  he  had  made. 

"  Yes,  my  patient  little  philosopher,"  answered 
the  uncle,  who  was  not  a  little  astonished  at  the 
boy's  continuity  of  attention,  "  and  the  pleasure 
we  derive  from  such  sentiments  consists  chiefly 
in  the  delight  we  find  in  loving  and  being  grate 
ful  to  others,  as  well  as  in  approving  and  in  think 
ing  well  of  them ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  human 
nature  is  capable  of  finding  a  savage  enjoyment 
in  detracting  from  the  merits  of  others — in  cen 
suring  and  satirizing  them,  as  well  as  in  venting 
our  anger  or  indignation  upon  those  who  have 
either  offended  ourselves  personally,  or  commit 
ted  some  flagrant  injustice  against  our  friends  or 
neighbors ;  for  indignation  is  but  sympathetic  an 
ger,  the  sense  which  makes  us  feel  a  wrong  done 
to  another,  the  same  as  if  it  had  been  done  to  us. 
And  here  I  should  point  out  to  you  what  is  the 
peculiar  characteristic  of  this  class  of  sentiments, 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

namely,  its  tendency  to  inspire  us  with  trust  in 
those  about  us ;  for  if  we  live  in  a  world  of  opin 
ion,  lad,  at  least  we  live  in  a  world  of  faith  to 
give  us  confidence  in  the  general  probity  of  our 
fellows.  Faith,  Ben,  is  usually  supposed  to  apply 
to  religious  matters,  and  to  be  that  principle  of 
our  soul  which  transcends  reason  as  a  means  of 
developing  belief.  For  instance,  we  can  not  ra 
tionally  understand  the  infinitude  of  space,  and 
yet  we  have  a  faith  that  the  universe  is  endless, 
and  feel  morally  certain  that  there  can  not  possi 
bly  be  any  limit  or  boundary  to  it,  since  if  there 
be  a  wall  round  it,  as  you  would  say,  boy,  what 
is  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  ?" 

"Ah!  that's  what  I  never  could  make  out," 
the  little  fellow  observed,  ready  to  fly  off  into  the 
new  mystery.  But  the  godfather  was  too  intent 
upon  the  work  he  had  in  hand  to  be  drawn  aside 
from  his  object ;  so  he  merely  said,  "  No,  nor  the 
greatest  philosopher  either.  However,  Ben,  faith 
is  as  necessary  for  worldly  guidance  as  it  is  for 
transcendental  knowledge  itself;  and  our  daily 
life  is  one  continuous  round  of  credence.  Indeed, 
if  it  were  not  for  the  credulous  principle  within  us, 
we  should  grow  up  as  ignorant  and  barbarous  as 
savages.  You  believe  the  world  to  be  a  huge 
ball,  Ben,  but  you  believe  this  only  because  peo 
ple  tell  you  so,  and  despite  the  testimony  of  your 
own  eyes,  which  assure  you  that  it  is  merely  an 
enormous  plate  of  land  and  water.  You  believe 
that  there  are  shores  across  the  sea,  even  though 
you  see  none,  and  see,  too,  that  the  water  itself 
ends  at  the  horizon ;  and  you  believe  this  simply 
because  your  father  and  I  tell  you  that  we  came 
thence  ;  and  yet,  when  poor  Columbus  reasoned 
with  the  bigoted  potentates  of  Spain  and  Portu 
gal,  they  laughed  such  notions  to  scorn,  and  pre 
ferred  the  avouchment  of  their  own  eyesight  to 


THE   STILL   SMALL   VOICE.  525 

the  demonstrations  of  his  logic.     You  believe  the 
million  strange  tales  of  history,  and  yet  you  could 
never  have  known  one  fact  recorded  there  of  your 
own  cognizance,  nor  have  even  so  much  as  set 
eyes  upon  the  old  chroniclers,  nor,  indeed,  have 
ever  spoken  with  any  one  who  did.     When,  too, 
you  come  to  study  the  discoveries  and  elabora 
tions  of  physical  science,  you  will  find  how  heavily 
your  faith  has  to  be  taxed,  and  that  if  you  pause 
to  test  and  prove  for  yourself  each  new  truth  as 
it  startles  your  mind,  you  will  find  that  you  will 
advance  no  quicker  than  the  tame  elephant,  which 
dreads  a  pitfall  at  every  step,  and  will  not  move 
a  foot  till  it  has  tried  with  its  trunk  the  solidity 
of  each  paving-stone  it  has  to  pass  over.     Indeed, 
lad,  we  are  born  credulous,  even  to  superstition, 
and  credulous  we  must  be  to  the  last,  if  we  would 
hold  the  least  communion  with  our  fellows ;  for  it 
is  only  the  silliness  of  skepticism  that  would  have 
us  believe  all  men  liars  till  we  have  proved  them 
truthful,  even  as  it  is  the  roguery  of  lawyers  to 
make  us  think  all  men  are  rogues  till  we  find  them 
honest.     Why,  lad,  if  it  were  not  for  the  abiding 
trust  of  faith,  how  could  we  have  any  sense  of  the 
future  ?     But  as  it  is,  the  child  lays  its  little  head 
on  the  pillow,  and  gives  itself  up  to  the  tempo 
rary  death  of  sleep,  confident  in  the  new  life  of 
to-morrow.     The  philosopher  and  the  boor  see 
the  gunpowder  explode  once,  and  instantly  the 
boor  and  the  philosopher  too  have  faith  that  the 
wondrous  powder  will,  under  the  same  circum 
stances,  continue  exploding  forever  after.     The 
farmer  sows  his  grain  in  perfect  faith  that  season 
will  follow  season  as  before,  and  husbands  the 
crop  in  perfect  faith  that  year  will  succeed  year 
to  the  end  of  time.     The  swain  writes  to  his  ab 
sent  lover  in  faith — in  faith  that  the  letter  will 
reach  the  girl,  even  though  it  have  to  travel  thou- 


YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

sands  of  miles  before  it  gets  to  her  hand — faith 
that  the  magic  little  ink-marks  he  traced  on  the 
paper  before  him  will  whisper  in  her  ear  the  very 
words  he  wishes,  and  pour  his  heart  out  to  her  as 
he  is  then  doing ;  ay,  and  in  faith,  too,  that  she 
will  kiss  the  letter  as  he  kisses  it,  and  that  their 
lips  will  thus  be  joined  again,  even  though  miles 
of  space  lie  between  them.  And  farther,  to  round 
the  perfect  circle  of  our  faithful  lives,  the  gray- 
beard  lays  his  head  upon  the  pillow  like  the  tired 
child,  and  gives  himself  up  to  the  temporary  sleep 
of  death,  confident  in  the  new  life  of  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  pretty !"  the  little  fellow  ex 
claimed. 

"  Pretty,  child !"  echoed  Uncle  Ben  ;  "  it  is  sim 
ply  true,  and  truth  is  always  more  or  less  beautiful. 
Indeed,  Ben,  doubt  and  mistrust  enter  the  mind 
only  through  the  hard  lessons  of  experience.  We 
have  an  innate  tendency  to  believe — to  believe  in 
nature,  and  believe  in  man  too ;  even  as  all  men 
have  an  innate  propensity  for  truth-speaking  and 
frankness,  and  this  has  to  be  checked  and  pervert 
ed  before  they  can  lie  and  deceive  ;  for  the  truth 
ever  rises  first  to  the  lips,  and  falsity  and  secrecy 
are  merely  the  dishonest  after -thoughts  of  the 
craven  heart.  Now  it  is  this  sense  of  the  spon 
taneous  truthfulness  of  human  nature  that  gives 
rise  to  that  spirit  of  trust  in  our  fellow-creatures 
which  is*  one  of  the  grandest  and  kindliest  char 
acters  of  our  soul.  Again  I  say  to  you,  boy,  let 
your  ear  be  ever  stone-deaf  to  the  base  attorney- 
precept  which  would  have  you  believe  all  men 
rogues  till  you  find  them  honest ;  for,  rest  as 
sured,  trust  between  man  and  man  is  as  necessary 
for  the  business  and  friendship  of  the  world,  as 
even  faith  in  the  uniformity  of  nature  is  for  our 
continued  physical  existence.  The  entire  machin 
ery  of  commerce  is  trust  and  credit ;  and  even 


THE   STILL   SMALL   VOICE.  527 

in  what  are  called  ready-money  transactions,  the 
same  principles  must  have  sway  for  a  time ;  for 
either  the  seller  must  part  with  his  goods,  or  the 
buyer  with  his  money,  one  before  the  other,  un 
less  they  stand,  the  one  holding  and  the  other 
grasping  the  wares,  while  each  does  the  same  with 
the  gold  and  silver,  both  relaxing  their  grip  of 
their  former  possessions  only  at  one  and  the  same 
time.  But  when  you  come  to  look  into  the  won 
drous  mechanism  of  the  world's  merchantry,  lad, 
and  see  the  all-pervading  element  of  trustfulness 
which  permeates  the  monetary  aifairs  of  all  great 
nations,  you  will  find  how  ship-loads  of  treasure 
are  consigned  to  utter  strangers  in  remote  coun 
tries  without  deed  or  document  from  those  to 
whom  they  are  intrusted ;  how  dealings  are  daily 
made  for  thousands,  and  often  millions,  by  mere 
wTord  of  mouth,  without  a  line  to  vouch  the  bar 
gain  ;  how  a  man's  mere  signature  will  pass  cur 
rent  in  the  market  as  the  representative  of  a  mass 
of  gold  that  no  cart  could  carry ;  and  how  a  sim 
ple  slip  of  printed  tissue-paper  will  go  from  hand 
to  hand,  and  be  changed  for  an  infinity  of  goods, 
and  yet  none  care  to  carry  it  to  the  bank,  and  get 
the  gold  for  it  that  it  is  believed  to  be  convertible 
into." 

"  I  declare,  uncle,"  interrupted  the  boy,  "  all 
this  seems  more  wonderful  to  me  than  any  thing 
you  have  yet  told  me." 

"Indeed,  my  lad, be  assured  that  untrustfulness 
is  the  enormity,  and  not  the  rule  of  human  life 
and  conduct  (otherwise  the  world  could  not  go 
on  as  it  does) ;  be  assured,  too,  that  the  attorney- 
creed  is  the  simple  consequence  of  lawyers  having 
to  deal  with  the  exceptional  cases  of  breach  of 
faith  in  society  rather  than  being  witness  to  the 
innumerable  daily  instances  of  the  faithfulness  and 
ordinary  integrity  of  merchant  life.  For  it  is  self- 


623  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   PBANKLIN. 

evident  that  if,  year  after  year,  the  bad  debts  in 
trade  in  the  least  exceeded  the  good  ones,  com 
merce  itself  must  collapse  after  a  time,  and  ev 
ery  atom  of  capital  ultimately  disappear  from  the 
land ;  while,  on  the  contrary,  the  growing  riches 
of  a  country  are  ever  a  golden  proof  not  only  that 
the  principle  of  faith  in  nature  has  made  men  la 
bor  and  husband  still  as  before,  but  that  the  prin 
ciple  of  trust  in  man  has  not  been  abused,  and  that 
more  have  turned  out  trustworthy  than  roguish." 

"  Indeed — indeed,  uncle,"  the  little  fellow  cried 
out,  "  this  is  the  most  cheerful  view  of  human  na 
ture  that  you  have  yet  given  me." 

"  It  is,  my  lad,"  responded  the  mentor  ;  "  and 
all  the  world  is  cheerful,  if  we  will  look  at  it  with 
but  just  a  glimmer  of  daylight  about  it.  And  now, 
Ben,  I  come  to  you  yourself,"  the  old  man  said, 
solemnly ;  "  you  see  what  a  grand  and  noble  prin 
ciple  is  this  propensity  to  trust  in  man,  so  do  you 
never  do  a  thing  to  abuse  it.  Remember,  the  man 
who  trusts  and  believes  you  honors  you  ;  he  pays 
you  the  finest  and  most  elegant  tacit  compliment 
it  is  possible  for  one  man  to  pay  another.  Let  the 
truth,  then,  be  ever  on  your  lips,  like  the  light  of 
the  morning  sun,  gilding  the  crimson  edges  of  the 
clouds,  and  spit  the  rising  lie  from  your  teeth  be 
fore  your  coward  heart  has  time  to  shape  it  into 
words.  Do  you  ever  bear  in  mind  that  man's  in 
nate  belief  in  the  truthfulness  of  his  fellow-man  is 
so  fine  and  generous  a  gift  that  it  has  all  the  im 
press  of  the  godhead's  own  righteousness  upon  it. 
Do  you  then  ever  see  it  as  a  sacred  thing,  and  re 
gard  lies  and  equivocations  as  the  very  blasphemy 
of  honor.  Remember,  too,  you  damage  not  only 
your  own  integrity  by  falsity,  but  you  undermine 
a  man's  trustfulness,  and  so  make  him  doubt  and 
suspect  others." 

The  boy  again  began  to  scribble  round  the 


THE    STILL    SMALL    VOICE.  629 

drawing;  and  when  he  had  finished,  the  uncle 
once  more  proceeded  with  the  exhortation. 

"  Be  just  and  righteous  to  the  man,  too,  who 
makes  you  his  trustee,  no  matter  upon  how  small 
a  business.  Break  faith  with  none ;  for  remem 
ber,  the  one  who  trusts  you  is  himself  trusted  by 
others,  and  if  you  fail  to  keep  your  bond  with  him, 
you  make  it  hard  for  him  to  meet  his  engagements 
with  those  to  whom  he  himself  stands  pledged. 
Commerce,  Ben,  is  the  broad  arch  overspanning 
every  city  and  country,  with  nothing  but  the 
honor  of  men  for  the  keystone  to  bind  the  whole 
together,  and  with  each  atom  of  the  structure 
bearing  upon,  and  not  only  sustained  by,  but  sus 
taining  the  others.  Moreover,  I  say,  be  not  only 
strictly  just,  but  have  you  ever  the  generosity  to 
lye/air  in  all  your  dealings.  Justice  is  but  nega 
tive  virtue,  doing  no  man  wrong;  but  I  say  to 
you,  be  more  than  negatively  virtuous ;  be  posi 
tively  righteous  enough  to  be  liberal  rather  than 
mean  and  grasping  in  your  transactions,  and  pre 
fer  to  give  an  advantage  to  the  man  with  whom 
you  deal  instead  of  taking  advantage  of  him ;  so, 
when  the  scales  of  equity  are  trembling  with  the 
exactness  of  the  equipoise,  do  you  be  the  one  to 
throw  in  the  market  handful  that  shall  change  the 
rigid  straitness  and  squareness  of  the  arrangement 
into  the  grace  of  the  well-turned  balance."  . 

Again  the  lad  fell  to  scribbling  the  moral  mem 
oranda  011  the  margin  of  the  paper  before  him, 
and  when  he  had  finished  he  looked  up  as  usual 
in  the  old  man's  face,  and  said,  "  Yes,  uncle,  I  am 
listening." 

"  Moreover,  Ben,"  then  went  on  the  good  coun 
selor,  "  as  you  wish  to  be  trusted  yourself,  and 
feel  how  galling  it  is  to  be  doubted  and  suspected, 
be  it  your  rule  ever  to  put  your  trust  in  others, 
and  let  not  the  exceptional  rogues  and  cheats  of 
L  L 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

the  world  ever  beat  out  of  you  your  faith  in  the 
general  trustworthiness  of  your  fellows.  A  bum- 
bailhT  believes  every  man  to  be  a  swindler ;  but 
do  you  have  a  soul  above  the  catchpoll's,  and 
think  well  and  kindly  of  men,  as  you  yourself 
would  be  well  and  kindly  thought  of.  Remember 
how  difficult  it  is  in  the  tangled  yarn  of  human 
motives  to  pick  out  the  very  '  cue  to  action,'  and 
that  the  parsimony,  which  is  wise  husbandry  in 
a  prudent  man,  is  but  base  avarice  in  the  miser ; 
the  punishment,  which  is  kindly  chastenment  from 
the  hands  of  the  wise  governor,  is  simply  bloody 
malevolence  when  the  blow  is  prompted  by  re 
venge.  Be  you,  therefore,  the  one  ever  to  trans 
late  the  passages  in  a  man's  life  freely  rather  than 
crabbedly,  and  to  choose  the  finer  spiritual  render 
ing  in  preference  to  the  harsh  literal  construc 
tion  of  the  act.  Be  slow  to  suspect,  for  an  eager 
ness  to  believe  in  meanness  is  but  the  mean 
prompting  of  a  mean  nature ;  and  have  faith  in 
no  man's  baseness  till  the  creed  is  fairly  forced 
upon  you ;  but  when  you  find  your  old  friend  out, 
why,  then  fling  the  dog  from  you  as  you  would 
a  fawning  hound  with  dirty  paws.  Moreover,  I 
say  to  you,  trust  even  the  untrustworthy,  so  long 
as  they  remain  true  to  yourself;  for  if  one  breach 
of  faith  with  another  is  to  put  an  end  to  all  faith 
in  us,  how  can  the  fallen  ever  hope  to  rise  ?  Be 
assured,  too,  that  by  trusting  those  who  have 
broken  trust,  the  chances  are  you  so  rouse  in 
them  the  dormant  sense  of  honor,  that  even  tJiey 
will  scorn  to  abuse  the  generosity  that  gave  them 
credit  for  a  virtue  which  others  supposed  to  be 
dead  in  them.  Therefore,  I  tell  you,  lad,  lend 
your  money,  as  I  have  done,  to  the  starving  thief, 
in  the  face  of  the  whole  world,  and  let  the  whole 
world  see  that  even  he,  if  you  pique  his  honor, 
can  render  you  every  farthing  of  your  due.  To 


THE   STILL   SMALL   VOICE. 

give  others  credit  for  being  as  honorable  as  your 
self  till  you  find  them  dishonorable  is  not  only  to 
be  a  gentleman,  but  to  create  gentlemen.  It  is  to 
raise  men  to  a  dignity  that  the  monarch  himself 
can  not  confer ;  for,  though  a  king  may  make  a 
man  a  lord,  he  can  not  make  a  man  a  gentleman, 
for  that  is  the  Almighty's  own  peerage,  over  which 
none  can  take  precedence." 

More  notes  were  made,  and  there  was  the  same 
silence  as  before  during  the  pause,  for  little  Ben 
could  do  no  more  than  listen,  record,  and  ponder. 
The  theme,  he  well  knew,  was  far  beyond  his 
powers  to  grapple  with ;  so,  like  a  wise  little  fel 
low  as  he  was,  he  became  a  good  listener  instead 
of  being  only  an  indifferent  talker. 

"  And  now,  my  son,"  presently  resumed  Uncle 
Ben,  "  there  remains  but  the  small  matter  of  pride 
and  humility  to  glance  at,  and  then  our  task  is 
done." 

The  only  remark  the  boy  hazarded  was,  "  You 
said  that  we  felt  proud  when  we  compared  our 
conduct,  our  gifts,  our  possessions,  our  station  in 
life  with  that  of  others,  and  fancied  ourselves 
better  than  they  for  what  we  do  or  have — that's 
what  you  said,  uncle." 

"  I  know,  lad,"  smiled  the  godfather ;  "  pride 
always  comes  of  one  of  those  human  comparisons 
that  are  truly  said  to  be  odious.  Even  when  the 
pride  is  just,  we  merely  put  ourselves  in  the  scales 
against  a  heap  of  rags  and  bones,  and  find  a  small 
delight  in  seeing  the  human  refuse  kick  the  beam ; 
but  in  false  pride  it  is  a  mere  bubble  that  we  strive 
to  give  gravity  to.  As  well  might  the  peacock's 
feather  itself  be  proud  that  it  no  longer  trails  in 
the  dirt,  as  the  upstart  fool  of  a  mandarin  who 
wears  it.  But  to  my  mind,  boy,  it  is  the  light 
weights,  after  all,  that  win  the  race,  for  the  hum 
ble  are  ever  the  wise.  The  humble  man  flings 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

himself  upon  his  knees,  and  looks  upward,  in  very 
worship  of  the  greatness  and  the  goodness  he 
loves  to  contemplate ;  the  proud  man,  on  the  oth 
er  hand,  draws  himself  up,  and  looks  down,  in 
scorn  of  the  baseness  and  the  littleness  he  delights 
to  contrast  with  himself;  the  one  gets  a  reflected 
grace  from  the  glory  he  is  forever  regarding,  the 
other  a  smudge  of  the  soot  from  the  sweeps  with 
whom  he  is  continually  measuring  lengths.  Be 
sides,  pride  is  merely  the  coxcomb  crest,  as  I  said 
before,  of  the  poor  mumming  fool  in  the  mask. 
For  what  has  the  proudest  of  us  to  be  proud  of? 
Is  it  your  person,  man  ?  why,  that  is  merely  the 
showy  binding  which  is  ever  relied  on  as  a  means 
of  fudging  off  a  trumpery  book.  Is  it  your 
clothes  ?  why,  the  tailor's  dummy  might  as  well 
lord  it  over  the  scarecrow.  Is  it  the  strawberry- 
leaves  of  your  grace  ?  but  what  are  the  mere 
leaves  of  honor  without  the  fruit  ?  Is  it  your 
learning  ?  what  is  it  but  the  chattering  of  the 
Greek  alphabet  after  all?  Is  it  your  wisdom? 
what  are  you,  Mr.  Philosopher,  but  the  monkey 
hammering  away  to  get  at  the  ticking  of  the 
watch  ?  Is  it  your  art  ?  a  grasshopper  might  as 
well  be  proud  of  the  power  in  its  hinder  legs,  as 
the  artist  of  his  handicraft.  Is  it  your  goodness  ? 
pshaw  !  had  you  any  of  the  true  stuff  about  you, 
pride  could  not  enter  your  heart,  seeing  that  you 
are  no  better  than  the  idiot — the  mere  creature 
of  the  great  inscrutable  will." 

The  task  was  now  fairly  ended  ;  for,  though 
there  were  still  the  feelings  of  anger  and  grati 
tude  belonging  to  the  class,  Uncle  Ben  had  already 
spoken  of  these  while  treating  of  the  affectionate 
emotions,  so  that  he  merely  pointed  out  to  the 
boy  that  the  grateful  impression  which  preceded 
the  feeling  of  love  is  more  a  sense  of  delight  than 


THE    STILL   SMALL   VOICE.  533 

gratitude,  and  that  the  impulse  of  thankfulness  is 
strongly  felt  only  when  we  are  convinced  that  the 
good  done  us  is  a  voluntary  act  of  grace  conferred 
upon  us,  and  that  merely  with  the  view  of  doing 
us  the  good. 

The  third  and  last  class  of  sentiments,  viz.,  those 
which  are  engendered  in  us  by  others'  opinion  of 
ourselves,  the  uncle  merely  particularized,  with 
out  entering  into  the  details  of  each  distinct  feel 
ing,  saying  that  the  pleasures  we  derive  from  this 
group  of  sentiments  consist  of  the  delight  we  feel 
in  being  loved  by  others,  or  in  being  admired  by 
them,  as  well  as  in  being  pitied,  respected,  honor 
ed,  revered,  and  approved  by  them ;  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  said  it  was  possible,  under  certain 
conditions  of  mind,  for  man  to  find  a  perverse  en 
joyment  in  being  hated,  despised,  contemned,  and 
even  persecuted  by  his  fellows.  Indeed,  after  all 
he  had  propounded  about  the  love  of  approba 
tion,  which  he  told  the  boy  was  the  one  feeling 
underlying  almost  the  whole  of  the  class,  it  was 
idle  for  him  to  expand  the  subject  into  tedious- 
ness. 

So  he  concluded  by  simply  informing  his  little 
godson  that  the  love  of  the  approbation  of  others 
is  the  main  element  in  what  is  called  vanity,  even 
as  the  love  of  our  own  approbation  is  the  ruling 
principle  in  what  is  termed  pride.  Farther,  he 
said  that  the  reason  why  praise  is  so  agreeable  to 
weak  natures  is  because  it  serves  to  increase  peo 
ple's  faith  in  their  own  powers,  and  this  is  neces 
sary  for  their  very  existence ;  so  that  where  this 
self-faith  is  the  feeblest  (because  the  powers  are 
felt  to  be  the  weakest),  the  desire  for  praise  and 
admiration  is  always  found  to  be  the  strongest. 
Hence  the  love  of  approbation,  he  added,  is  the 
distinctive  mark  of  modesty  and  diffidence,  and  is 
as  pardonable,  and  even  beautiful  to  behold,  when 


YOUNG  BENJAMIN  FEANKLIN. 

not  made  an  all-absorbing  passion,  in  the  feminine 
character,  as  it  is  a  sign  of  effeminacy  and  foppery 
in  the  masculine  mind. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE   BURDEN  OF   THE    SONG. 

UNCLE  BEN'S  evening  meal  did  not  take  long 
to  discuss.  The  bowl  of  milk  was  soon  emptied, 
and  the  hot,  buttered  corn-cake  that  Dame  Frank 
lin  had  sent  up  with  it  was  rapidly  made  away 
with,  for  the  old  man  was  anxious  to  get  the  les 
son  ended  that  night.  So,  when  the  boy  had  re 
moved  the  basins,  and  swept  the  crumbs  from  the 
table,  another  log  was  thrown  across  the  dogs  on 
the  hearth,  and  the  little  room  made  to  flicker 
again  with  the  ruddy  flames  in  the  dusk  of  the 
"  'tween-lights." 

The  old  man  drew  his  chair  round  close  to  the 
fire,  and  sat  watching  the  burning  fagots  as  he 
proceeded  to  put  the  finishing  touch  to  the  view 
of  life  he  had  sketched  out  for  his  little  pupil. 

Little  Ben  placed  himself  on  the  hassock  at  his 
uncle's  feet,  and  said,  as  he  laid  the  old  man's 
veiny  hand  in  his  own  little  palm,  and  kept  try 
ing  to  smooth  the  wrinkles  out  of  the  back  of  it, 
"I  know  what  you're  going  to  tell  me  now,  unky, 
dear.  You're  going  to  point  out  to  me  what  is 
my  duty  to  those  poor  boys  we  saw  in  the  poor- 
house  and  the  jail ;  ain't  you,  now  ?" 

The  godfather  shook  his  head,  and  replied, 
"  Not  so,  my  boy ;  they  are  only  a  mere  fraction 
of  the  mass  to  whom  we  owe  a  duty.  I  might, 
had  I  cared  to  harass  your  little  soul  into  good 
ness,  have  taken  you  to  the  mad-house,  and  shown 
you  the  host  of  pauper  lunatics  and  idiots  there ; 


THE   BURDEN    OF   THE   SONG.  535 

or  I  might  have  led  you  to  the  quarter  of  the  town 
where  the  blind  beggars  mostly  live,  and  have  let 
you  see  them  with  their  blind  wives  (for  the  blind 
mostly  marry  the  blind),  sitting  in  their  clean  and 
tidy  homes,  without  a  candle,  in  the  dark,  and 
have  let  you  hear  them  tell  their  blind  dreams  and 
stories  of  the  death  of  the  faithful  dogs  that  they 
still  love  well  enough  to  weep  over.    I  might  have 
shown  you  how  even  they,  beggars  as  they  are, 
seldom  or  never  shut  the  door  against  the  beg 
gar  who  is  worse  off  than  themselves ;  and  how, 
though  they  have  hearts  full  of  pity  for  suffering, 
they  are  still  callous  enough  to  relish,  with  all  a 
true  beggar's  zest,  any  roguish  cheat  of  mendi 
cancy.     I  could  have  taken  you  likewise,  lad,  to 
the  crippled  and  the  maimed,  and  have  brought 
you  face  to  face  with  the  half-beggar  hucksters 
of  the  town,  that  pretend  to  sell  some  petty  wares 
about  the  city  so  as  to  avoid  the  imprisonment  of 
the  jail  as  regular  mendicants  on  the  one  hand,  or 
of  the  poor-house  as  indoors  people  on  the  other. 
I  might  have  shown  you,  too,  the  petty  markets 
frequented  by  the  very  old  and  very  young  for 
trades  that  require  but  a  few  halfpence  as  capital 
to  start  in ;  I  might  have  let  you  see  these  poor, 
struggling,  half-starved  things,  shivering  at  early 
morning  in  their  rags,  and  might  have  let  you 
hear  how  even  they — merchants  who  are  literally 
not  worth  twopence — are  trusted,  ay,  and  seldom 
or  never  break  faith  with  their  creditors  either. 
And  when  you  had  read  the  sorry  leaf  out  of  life's 
book  from  beginning  to  end,  I  might  have  whis 
pered  in  your  ear,  Ben,  that  these  were  not  the 
voluntary  beggars  of  the  world — not  the  profes 
sional  mendicant  cheats  that  prefer  lying  and  lout- 
ing  to  honest  labor — but  God  Almighty's  own 
beggars— the  blind,  the  crippled,  and  the  infirm." 
"  I  wish  you  had  taken  me  to  see  all  this,  un- 


536  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

cle,"  broke  in  the  little  fellow,  as  he  still  fondled 
with  the  old  man's  hand. 

"  Nevertheless,  Ben,  this  is  not  the  rule  of 
want,"  went  on  the  other ;  "  it  is  good  to  know 
that  such  misery  exists  about  us,  so  that  we  may 
have  a  sense  of  the  favors  vouchsafed  to  ourselves, 
even  if  we  have  no  desire  to  relieve  the  suffering. 
But  there  is  little  good  in  the  knowledge  as  a 
matter  of  wisdom,  for  the  study  of  exceptional 
cases  gives  the  mind  but  a  sorry  understanding 
after  all.  What  I  do  want  to  wake  you  up  to, 
however,  is  the  law  of  human  suffering,  lad,  and 
the  reason  why  I  took  you  to  the  poor-house  and 
the  jail  was  merely  to  shake  you  well,  and  rouse 
you  to  listen  to  the  tale  I  had  to  tell." 

"  The  law  of  human  suffering !"  echoed  the  boy. 

"  Yes,  the  law !"  reiterated  the  teacher,  "  for  it 
is  the  rule  of  life  that  more  are  born  to  want  and 
suffer  than  to  feast  and  be  merry,  Ben." 

"  Well,  but,  uncle,"  remonstrated  the  little  fel 
low,  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  so  many  poor  people 
about  as  you'd  make  out." 

"  How  should  you,  lad,  when  the  truly  honest 
and  deserving  poor  are  always  the  secret  suffer 
ers,  and  not  the  ostentatious  beggars  that  love  to 
parade  the  afflictions  on  which  they  trade  ?"  was 
the  gentle  rebuke.  "  Besides,  you  are  born  in  the 
sphere  of  comparative  comfort  and  competence, 
Ben ;  and  such  is  the  caste  of  class-life  among  us, 
that  the  people  belonging  to  one  division  of  soci 
ety  have  no  more  knowledge  of  the  people  in  an 
other  grade,  even  though  they  live  continually 
about  them,  than  they  have  of  the  inhabitants  of 
the  remotest  countries.  Hence  the  well-to-do, 
having  no  communion  with  the  hard-to-do,  are 
naturally  skeptical  when  they  are  told  that  their 
happiness  and  ease  is  the  anomaly  in  life,  and  that 
suffering  and  trouble  are  the  normal  lot  of  hu- 


THE   BURDEN    OF   THE   SONG.  537 

manity.  Now  look  here,  little  man :  in  every 
state,  as  nearly  as  possible  two  thirds  of  the  pop 
ulation  are  born  to  a  life  of  hard  labor,  and  live 
continually,  as  it  is  called, '  from  hand  to  mouth ;' 
so  that,  as  almost  all  trades  have  their  brisk  and 
their  slack  seasons,  and  many  a  calling  depends 
on  the  very  elements  themselves  for  the  pursuit 
of  it,  you  can  readily  understand  that  the  mass  of 
the  people  must  have  regularly-recurring  periods 
of  bitter  privation  to  pass  through  every  year  of 
their  lives.  Think,  for  one  moment,  of  the  im 
mense  host  of  stomachs  that  depend  on  the  very 
soil  itself  for  their  bread — the  multitudinous  body 
of  ground-laborers  (including  the  great  agricul 
tural  troop),  and  the  miners,  road-makers,  and  ex 
cavators,  that  are  more  or  less  required  in  all  na 
tions.  Think,  too,  of  the  immense  army  of  carri 
ers,  carters  and  porters,  bargemen  and  boatmen, 
merchant -seamen  and  dock -laborers,  coachmen, 
stablemen,  and  messengers — why  these,  lad,  gen 
erally  make  up  two  fifths  of  the  entire  body  of 
grown  men  in  every  civilized  community,  and 
upon  the  labor  and  health  of  these,  some  thou 
sands,  if  not  millions  of  families,  are  dependent. 
Think  then  of  the  brutal  ignorance  in  which  this 
tremendous  crowd  of  people  are  left  to  wallow 
generation  after  generation,  and  next  think  of 
their  comfortless  homes  and  their  aching  limbs 
after  a  heavy  day's  labor  (you  have  never  done 
one  yet,  my  boy),  and  then  you  will  be  able  to 
make  some  allowance  for  the  attraction  they  find 
in  the  stimulus  and  cheering  fire  and  company  of 
the  tap-room.  And  when  you  have  made  this  al 
lowance,  and  seen  that  thrift  and  providence,  un 
der  such  circumstances,  are  moral  impossibilities, 
you  will  be  able  to  have  some  faint  idea  of  what 
kind  of  a  season  winter  must  be  to  such  people,  and 
to  their  wives  and  children — winter,  when  there 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

is  always  less  to  do  and  get,  and  more  wanted. 
Why,  if  we  can  feel  for  the  birds  of  the  air,  and 
the  robins,  when  the  snow  is  on  the  ground,  sure 
ly  the  heart  can  not  be  utterly  steeled  against  the 
thousands  of  little  half-feathered  human  birds — 
such  as  the  children  of  the  ground-workers — that 
suffer  when  the  earth  is  like  a  block  of  marble 
with  the  frost,  as  much  as,  if  not  more  than,  the 
robins  themselves  at  such  times. 

"The  skilled  laborers  again,"  the  uncle  resumed, 
"  such  as  the  tailors,  the  shoemakers,  the  weavers, 
and  the  vast  body  of  metal-workers,  and  wood 
workers,  as  well  as  the  builders  of  every  com 
munity,  are  a  multitude  that  are  becoming  almost 
as  large  as  the  tribe  of  unskilled  workmen  them 
selves,  and  in  many  of  these  trades  there  are  the 
same  periodical  fluctuations  as  in  those  that  de 
pend  upon  the  seasons  and  the  earth  for  the  sub 
sistence  of  the  people  belonging  to  them.  So  that 
when  I  tell  you  that  as  many  as  two  thirds  of  the 
people  in  most  countries  are  wagemen,  living  gen- 
erally^from  hand  to  mouth,  and  that  a  very  large 
majority  of  them  are  hardly  a  half-gallon  loaf 
beyond  starvation,  you  will  understand  that  I  do 
not  speak  at  random,  and  that  want  and  suffer 
ing  is  the  rule  of  life,  and  comfort  and  happiness 
only  the  exception"* 

*  The  numbers  and  proportions  of  the  different  classes  of 
society  in  our  own  country  at  the  time  of  taking  the  last  cen 
sus  were  as  follows : 

Total  population  of  Great  Britain  in  1851  (in  round  num 
bers),  twenty-one  millions. 

But  of  these  not  quite  half  were  children  and  young  peo 
ple  under  twenty  years  of  age,  the  majority  of  whom  were 
incapable  of  earning  their  own  living ;    the  returns  being 
4,765,000  males  in  Great  Britain  under  twenty  years  of  age 
4, 735,  OOP  females         "          "  "         "  « 

9,500,000  of  young  people  of  both  sexes. 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  out  of  the  eleven  and  a  half  mil- 


THE   BUKDEN    OF   THE   SONG.  539 

"  Oh,  uncle,"  exclaimed  young  Ben,  "  how  can 
you  tell  me  such  things  after  the  fine,  pleasant 

lions  of  grown  people,  rather  more  than  half  were  women, 
the  majority  of  whom  also  were  incapable  of  supporting  them 
selves  ;  the  returns  being  (in  round  numbers) 
5,500,000  males  in  Great  Britain  above  twenty  years  of  age 
6,000,000  females 
11,500,000  of  grown  people  of  both  sexes. 

So  that  out  of  a  gross  population  of  just  upon  twenty-one 
millions,  but  little  more  than  a  quarter,  or  five  and  a  half 
millions,  were  grown  men,  upon  whom  the  support  of  the 
other  three  fourths  of  the  community  more  or  less  depended. 
Now  these  five  and  a  half  millions  of  grown  men  through 
out  Great  Britain  were  thus  distributed  as  to  their  occupa 
tions  : 

In  the  first  place,  there  was  upward  of  one  million  of  agri 
cultural  laborers,  shepherds,  drovers,  farm-servants,  wood 
men,  and  men  employed  about  gardens,  and  the  like. 

And  besides  these  there  was  upward  of  a  quarter  of  a 
million  of  general  laborers,  such  as  ground-workers,  navi 
gators,  railway  laborers,  roadmen,  coal-heavers,  and  so  forth. 
Then  there  was  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  million  of  miners 
and  quarrymen,  and  upward  of  another  quarter  of  a  million 
of  carriers  and  carters,  railway-men  and  omnibus-drivers, 
coachmen,  grooms,  and  stable-men,  boatmen  and  bargemen, 
canal  service-men  and  merchant-seamen,  messengers  and 
porters,  warehousemen  and  packers,  and  others  engaged  in 
the  conveyance  of  goods  or  persons  from  one  part  of  the 
country  to  another. 

Hence  there  was  an  aggregate  of  very  nearly  two  millions 
(one  million  nine  hundred  and  fifty  thousand)  of  unskilled 
laborers  among  the  five  and  a  half  millions  of  men  through 
out  Great  Britain ;  or,  in  other  words,  more  than  a  third  of 
the  grown  male  population  of  the  country  existed  in  the  semi- 
brute  state  of  mere  "  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water." 
The  remaining  three  and  a  half  millions  of  men  in  Great 
Britain  were  thus  occupied.  First,  there  were  more  than 
two  millions  of  artisans,  or  skilled  laborers,  following  callings 
that  required  move  or  less  of  an  apprenticeship  before  they 
could  be  profitably  pursued,  and  these  were  made  up  of 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  million  of  builders  (such  as  brick 
layers,  slaters,  masons  and  plasterers,  etc.);  upward  of  a 
third  of  a  million  of  wood-workers  (such  as  carpenters  and 
joiners,  cabinet-makers,  and  carvers  and  gilders,  musical  in 
strument-makers,  chair  and  box  makers,  turners,  frame- 


540  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

views  of  the  world  you  have  given  me  ?  But  why 
should  all  this  want  and  suffering  be,  if  God  is  as 
good  and  kind  as  you  say  He  is  ?" 

makers,  block  and  print  cutters,  clog-makers,  coopers,  ship 
wrights,  coach-makers,  wheelwrights,  sawyers,  basket-mak 
ers,  lath-makers,  cork-cutters,  etc.);  upward  of  another  third 
of  a  million  of  textile  manufacturers  (including  the  cotton- 
factory  workers,  and  the  several  working  manufacturers  of 
woolen  cloths,  worsted  and  stuff  materials,  carpets,  silk  and 
ribbon,  flax  and  linen,  fustian,  rope,  sail-cloth  and  lace,  as 
well  as  the  printers  and  dyers  of  calico) ;  and  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  thousand  workers  on  textile  materials  (such 
as  the  great  body  of  tailors,  umbrella-makers,  hatters,  etc.); 
upward  of  a  quarter  of  a  million,  too,  of  leather-workers 
(such  as  curriers  and  tanners,  saddlers,  and  whip  and  har 
ness  makers,  glovers  and  shoe-makers) ;  more  than  a  third  of 
a  million  metal-workers  (such  as  iron  manufacturers,  black 
smiths,  locksmiths,  gunsmiths,  farriers,  anchor-smiths,  boiler- 
makers,  file-cutters,  nail-makers,  needle-makers,  engine  and 
machine  makers,  tool-makers,  mill-wrights,  implement-mak 
ers,  wire  -  workers,  braziers,  button  -  makers,  coppersmiths, 
whitesmiths,  tinmen,  zinc-workers,  platers,  goldsmiths  and 
silversmiths,  watch-makers  and  philosophical  instrument- 
makers)  ;  nearly  one  hundred  thousand  workers  in  clay, 
stone,  and  glass  (such  as  the  brick  -  makers,  potters,  and 
earthen-ware  manufacturers,  pipe-makers,  and  glass  manu 
facturers).  Nearly  nineteen  thousand  workers  in  bone  and 
hair  (such  as  the  comb-makers,  brush  and  broom  makers, 
horse -hair -workers,  and  hair  -  dressers,  and  wig -makers); 
twenty-five  thousand  and  odd  printers  and  paper-workers 
(such  as  compositors,  pressmen,  paper-stainers,  bookbinders, 
and  paper-hangers) ;  nearly  fifty  thousand  chemical  manu 
facturers  (such  as  the  manufacturers  of  acids,  artificial  ma 
nures,  cements,  ink,  colors,  disinfectants,  varnishes,  medi 
cines,  etc.,  as  well  as  the  dyers  and  fullers,  soap-boilers 
and  tallow-chandlers,  provision  curers,  French  polishers,  gas 
manufacturers,  paper  -  makers,  patent  firewood  and  lucifer 
match  manufacturers,  fire-work  makers,  etc.) ;  besides,  there 
were  upward  of  two  hundred  thousand  of  workers  at  provi 
sions  (such  as  bakers,  confectioners,  and  millers,  butchers, 
maltsters  and  brewers,  fishermen,  and  even  milkmen).  Then 
add  to  these  ten  thousand  general  mechanics  (branch  not 
mentioned),  and  we  shall  have  an  aggregate  of  two  millions 
and  sixty  odd  thousand  of  skilled  workmen  above  twenty 
years  of 'age  in  Great  Britain.  Moreover,  there  were  up- 


THE  BURDEN  OF  THE  SONG.         541 

"  Why  should  hunger,  which  is  one  of  the  chief 
evils  of  a  life  of  poverty,  be  a  pain,  lad  ?"  was  the 

ward  of  one  hundred  thousand  clerks  and  officials  through 
out  the  country  (including  government  clerks,  law  clerks, 
commercial  clerks,  parish  clerks,  as  well  as  the  toll  collect 
ors,  and  commercial  travelers,  besides  the  various  parish  and 
church  officers,  and  those  attached  to  the  different  charitable 
institutions  and  law  courts)  ;  there  were  also  nearly  another 
hundred  thousand  gentlemen's  servants,  and  nearly  the  same 
number  (ninety-two  thousand)  of  guardians  of  the  public 
peace  (such  as  policemen,  soldiers  and  pensioners,  sailors  in 
the  navy,  and  marines)  ;  and,  lastly,  there  were  nearly  twen 
ty  thousand  itinerant  traders  (such  as  showmen,  and  men 
with  games  and  sports,  hawkers  and  peddlers),  together  with 
not  quite  forty  thousand  males  above  twenty  years  of  age 
belonging  to  the  helpless  and  dependent  class  (such  as  pau 
pers,  vagrants,  alms-people,  beggars,  lunatics,  and  those  liv 
ing  on  their  relatives). 

Now,  putting  the  whole  of  these  several  classes  of  skilled 
and  unskilled  laborers,  clerks  and  officials,  policemen  and 
common  soldiers  and  seamen,  as  well  as  the  servants,  itin 
erant  traders,  and  dependents  all  together,  so  as  to  form  one 
body,  we  have  a  total  of  four  millions  three  hundred  and 
sixty  odd  thousand  of  grown  men  (with  families  generally), 
who,  if  they  are  not  all  strictly  wagemen,  at  least  mostly  live 
like  them  from  hand  to  mouth  upon  their  immediate  earn 
ings,  and  whose  earnings,  moreover,  seldom  exceed  one  hund 
red  a  year,  often  fall  below  fifty,  and  in  a  large  number  of 
cases  hardly  ever  rise  above  ten  shillings  per  week.  Four 
millions  three  hundred  and  sixty  odd  thousand  of  grown 
men,  living  more  or  less  from  hand  to  mouth,  the  majority 
of  whom  are  seldom  half  a  quartern  loaf  beyond  starving, 
and  that  out  of  only  five  and  a  half  millions  of  grown  men 
altogether !  so  that  if  Uncle  Ben  had  said  that  three  fourths 
of  the  people  in  most  communities  are  born  to  want  and  suf 
fer,  the  statement  would  have  been  more  correct. 

It  may  be  useful  to  the  young  reader  to  know  what  classes 
constitute  the  more  lucky  portion  of  the  community — that 
portion  which  is  either  so  well  paid  for  the  services  rendered 
by  them  as  to  enable  them  to  live  like  gentlemen,  or  who 
are  engaged  in  trade  or  commerce,  or  else  living  on  their 
means  as  independent  people. 

Well,  imprimis,  there  are  sixty-seven  thousand  men  be 
longing  to  what  are  styled  the  learned  professions:  thirty 
thousand  clergymen  and  priests,  seventeen  thousand  lawyers, 


512  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

interrogatory  in  reply.  "  Why,  because,  as  I  told 
you  before,  if  it  had  been  made  a  pleasure,  we 

and  twenty  thousand  doctors.  Then  there  are  fourteen  thou 
sand  officers  belonging  to  the  army,  navy,  or  East  India  serv 
ice,  on  either  full  or  half  pay. 

Moreover,  there  are  another  sixty-seven  thousand  grown 
men  belonging  to  the  literary  and  artistic  classes  (such  as  au 
thors,  editors,  scientific  "professors, "teachers,  schoolmasters, 
music-masters,  and  others  ;  musicians,  actors,  artists,  engra 
vers,  carvers,  pattern  designers,  draughtsmen,  medalists  and 
die-sinkers,  architects,  surveyors,  and  civil  engineers). 

Farther,  there  are  upward  of  a  hundred  thousand  connect 
ed  with  the  moneyed  or  capitalist  classes,  as  well  as  what 
may  be  styled  the  "commission"  business  of  commerce  (such 
as  those  who  are  returned  as  independent  and  annuitants), 
of  whom  there  are  about  thirty-three  thousand  in  the  last 
decennial  report,  and  not  quite  twenty  thousand  landed  pro 
prietors,  as  well  as  twelve  thousand  house  proprietors  through 
out  Great  Britain.  Then  there  are  two  thousand  ship-own 
ers;  not  quite  two  thousand  bankers,  and  nine  thousand 
merchants  ;  besides  a  host  of  ship  agents,  brokers,  agents  and 
factors,  salesmen,  auctioneers,  accountants,  pawnbrokers,  gen- 
eral  merchants  and  dealers,  as  well  as  coach  and  cab  owners 
— in  all,  one  hundred  and  fifteen  thousand  people. 

Next,  there  are  upward  of  a  third  of  a  million  farmers  and 
graziers  throughout  the  country. 

After  these  come  the  tradesmen  and  dealers,  of  whom 
there  are  altogether  as  many  as  three  hundred  and  seventy- 
eight  thousand,  including  thirteen  thousand  general  "shop 
keepers,"  five  thousand  and  odd  cattle  and  sheep  dealers, 
three  hundred  horse-dealers,  twenty  odd  thousand  inn-keep 
ers,  twelve  hundred  livery-stable-keepers,  six  thousand  board 
and  lodging-house  keepers,  thirty-seven  thousand  licensed 
victualers  and  beer-shop-keepers ;  nearly  nine  thousand  wine 
and  spirit  merchants,  eight  thousand  corn-merchants  and 
flour-dealers,  nearly  the  same  number  of  green-grocers,  three 
thousand  cheesemongers,  not  quite  two  thousand  poulterers, 
and  six  thousand  seven  hundred  fishmongers ;  as  many  as 
fifty-five  thousand  five  hundred  grocers,  and  three  thousand 
tobacconists  ;  and  about  twenty-two  thousand  others  dealing 
in  vegetable  or  animal  food,  or  else  in  drinks  and  stimulants ; 
fifteen  hundred  "water  providers,"  the  same  number  of  deal 
ers  in  salt,  and  only  as  many  oil  and  colormen,  besides  two 
thousand  others  dealing  in  oils  and  gums ;  eleven  thousand 
and  odd  druggists,  over  ten  thousand  coal-merchants  and 


THE   BUKDEN    OP   THE   SONG.  &i3 

should  have  sat  still  and  should  have  starved  with 
delight.  Even  so  with  human  misery:  if  all  were 
well-to-do — if  there  were  no  sickness  and  no  suf 
fering  in  the  world,  there  would  be  no  need  of 
sympathy,  nothing  to  be  grateful  for,  no  reason 
for  human  love.  If  man  wanted  nothing  at  the 
hands  of  his  parents  or  his  neighbor,  if  he  were 
able  to  shift  for  himself  directly  he  came  into  ex- 
dealers  ;  nearly  nine  thousand  dealing  in  wool,  and  three 
thousand  woolen-drapers ;  six  thousand  clothiers,  and  three 
thousand  hosiers ;  nearly  twenty-eight  thousand  linen-dra 
pers;  about  five  thousand  dealing  in  silk,  as  silk-mercers, 
etc.,  and  thirteen  thousand  others  engaged  in  furnishing  ar 
ticles  of  dress  ;  five  thousand  and  odd  dealing  in  hemp,  and 
eighteen  thousand  in  flax ;  sixteen  hundred  fellmongers, 
three  thousand  grease  and  bone  dealers,  and  only  five  hund 
red  and  sixty  dealing  in  feathers  and  quills ;  three  thousand 
five  hundred  stationers,  and  two  thousand  and  more  dealing 
in  paper;  six  thousand  five  hundred  publishers  and  book 
sellers  ;  six  thousand  four  hundred  people  dealing  in  timber, 
three  thousand  five  hundred  in  glass  and  earthen-ware,  and 
six  hundred  in  precious  stones ;  besides  whom  there  are  the 
dealers  in  the  different  metals,  or  metal  goods,  as  three  hund 
red  and  twenty  in  copper,  five  thousand  in  tin,  two  thousand 
in  lead,  thirty  in  zinc,  six  thousand  and  more  in  the  mixed 
metals,  and  about  twenty-five  thousand  in  iron  and  steel,  in 
cluding  nearly  seven  thousand  ironmongers. 

Now  add  to  the  numbers  of  the  above-mentioned  classes 
twenty  odd  thousand  men  above  twenty  years  of  age  return 
ed  as  sons  and  scholars,  and  nearly  fifty-five  thousand  others 
"of  no  stated  occupation,"  and  we  have  a  gross  total  of  one 
million  and  eighty-six  thousand  grown  men  in  positions  of 
comparative  comfort,  against  four  million  three  hundred  and 
sixty  odd  thousand  in  comparative  indigence.  Or,  assuming 
each  of  these  men  to  be  married,  and  have  two  children  re 
spectively,  we  shall,  if  we  multiply  these  totals  by  four,  come 
to  something  like  an  approximate  notion  as  to  how  many  of 
our  twenty-one  millions  of  people  enjoy  lives  of  ease  and 
plenty,  and  how  many  live  lives  of  care,  'if  not  distress.  The 
result  shows  that  the  proportions  are  four  millions  of  well- 
to-do  folk  and  seventeen  millions  of  struggling  poor  in  the 
country. 

A  brief  summary  of  the  whole  is  subjoined : 


544  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

istence  as  readily  as  the  young  grub,  why,  he 
would  have  no  more  love  than  a  grub,  no  more 

Number  of  Men  above  Twenty  Years  of  Age,  belonging  to  the 
Wage   Class,  and  others  living  from  Hand  to  Mouth  in 
Great  Britain,  calculated  from  the  Census  of  1851. 
Laborers  (agricultural  and  general,  as  well  as"} 

those  engaged  in  mining  and  the  carrying  V    1,944,300 

trades) ) 

Artisans 2,061,400 

Clerks  and  officials 112,350 

Gentlemen's  servants 96,150 

Policemen,  and  common  soldiers,  and  seamen...  92,000 

Showmen  and  hucksters 18,300 

Dependents  (including  paupers,  vagrants,  alms-)          «n  Q/WX 

people,  beggars,  and  living  on  relatives) ) 

4,362,500 

Number  of  Men  above  Twenty  Years  of  Age  belonging  to  the 
Moneyed  and  Capitalist  Classes,  as  well  as  to  the  Profes 
sional,  Artistic,  and  Trading  Classes  in  Great  Britain,  cal 
culated  from  the  Census  o/'1851. 
Military,  naval,  and  East  India  officers  (on  full)        1/f  nnn 

and  half  pay) f        M'UU 

Professional  men 67,900 

Literary  and  artistic  men 67,000 

Moneyed    classes,  capitalists,   merchants,    and)      115  650 

commission  agents ) 

Farmers  and  graziers 367,000 

Tradesmen  and  dealers 378,710 

Sons  and  scholars  belonging  to  wealthier  classes          21,700 

Of  no  stated  occupation 54,800 

•1,086,760 
Total  number  of  males  above  twenty  years  of  age)  r  ArQ  Q1r 

in  Great  Britain f  5»458>81<> 

Total  number  accounted  for  in  the  classes  above)  5  ^  ^QQ 

given )  J 

Unaccounted  for 9,555 

It  is  impossible  to  give  the  returns  exactly  on  this  subject, 
owing  to  the  confounding  of  the  employers  with  the  employ 
ed  in  the  last  census  returns,  as  well  as  owing  to  the  dis 
gracefully  imbecile  manner  in  which  the  various  occupations 
of  society  are  classified  in  the  government  report,  the  logical 
arrangement  being  such  as  would  shame  a  school-boy ;  for, 


THE   BURDEN    OF   THE   SONG. 

affection  and  gratitude  than  a  house-fly.  But  as 
it  is,  this  sense  of  sympathy  has  been  made  one  of 
the  most  tender  and  graceful  emotions  of  our  na 
ture,  being  a  double  blessing — blessing  him  that 
gives,  as  Shakspeare  says,  and  him  that  receives 
as  well ;  and  rest  assured  it  was  for  the  develop 
ment  of  this,  the  finest  feeling  of  our  soul,  that 
some  have  been  born  to  want  and  suffering,  and 
some,  on  the  other  hand,  endowed  with  the  pow 
er  to  commiserate  and  relieve." 

on  account  of  an  insane  attempt  at  what  is  styled  a  "sub 
jective"  classification  of  the  people,  we  have  the  woolen  and 
silk  manufacturers  there  grouped  under  the  same  head  as 
the  cow-keepers  and  the  fishmongers,  the  soap-boilers  and 
tallow-chandlers,  fellmongers  and  tanners,  merely  because 
they  are  all  engaged  upon  animal  matters ;  so,  again,  we  have 
in  the  last  census  report  the  cabinet-makers  and  timber-mer 
chants  grouped  with  the  green-grocer  and  confectioner,  and 
the  cotton  and  lace  manufacturers  lumped  with  the  oil  and 
colormen  and  brewers ;  the  paper-makers  and  cork-cutters 
classed  with  the  grocers  and  tobacconists,  and  all  for  the  ex 
tremely  simple  reason  that  they  are  every  one  employed  upon 
vegetable  matters ;  even  as  the  chimney-sweeps  go  with  the 
coal-miners  and  the  glass  manufacturers,  the  coal-heavers 
with  the  workers  in  precious  stones,  the  road-laborer  with 
the  goldsmith  and  silversmith,  and  the  brickmaker  with  the 
blacksmith,  solely  because  they  are  one  and  all  employed 
upon  minerals.  Then  we  have  the  carpenter  and  joiner  class 
ed  with  the  actor,  engraver,  and  musician ;  the  bricklayer 
and  pavior  with  the  civil  engineer,  under  the  miscellaneous 
head  of  those  engaged  upon  art  and  mechanics ;  though  the 
turners  and  block  and  print  cutters  are  lumped  with  the  ba 
kers  and  the  brewers  under  the  head  vegetable  workers,  even 
as  the  carvers  and  gilders  and  electro-platers  are  classified 
with  the  railway  navigators  under  the  mineral  order.  As 
well  might  the  arrangement  have  been  according  to  the  four 
elements,  viz.,  those  withjire;  those  working  upon  or  under 
the  earth ;  those  working  with  air  or  gases ;  and  those  work 
ing  with  or  upon  the  water,  as  have  adopted  the  childish  plan 
of  those  working  with  animal  matters,  vegetable  matters,  and 
minerals.  Indeed,  the  classification  of  the  people  given  in 
the  last  census  is  the  very  fatuity  of  system-mongering,  com 
pared  with  which  the  crudity  of  an  alphabetical  arrangement 
is  the  height  of  enlightenment. 
M  M 


546  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FKANKLIN. 

"I  see,  now,  what  it  all  means,  uncle ;  and  that 
is  the  reason,  I  suppose,  why  we  are  told  that  from 
those  to  whom  much  is  given  much  is  expected." 

"  Be  it  then  your  aim,  lad,  to  do  your  duty  in 
that  state  of  life  in  which  it  has  pleased  God  to 
call  you,"  was  the  simple  reply. 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  and  then  the  uncle, 
reverting  to  the  starting-point  of  the  long  dis 
course,  asked  once  more  the  following  question : 

"And  now  do  you  know  how  to  spend  your 
money  when  you've  got  it,  Ben  ?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  know  what  I  shall  do  with  mine," 
cried  the  little  fellow,  jumping  up  from  his  stool 
and  shaking  his  head  as  he  paced  the  room  with 
the  excitement  of  the  thought. 

"  What  ?"  quietly  inquired  his  godfather. 

"Why,  I  shall  give  it  all  away  to  the  poor," 
was  the  earnest  answer. 

"  Trash,  Ben !  trash !  and  mere  boyish  senti 
ment,"  rejoined  the  mentor.  "This  is  the  same 
as  the  old  monkish  folly — the  folly  of  ascetic  big 
ots,  who  thought  the  world  a  thing  to  fly  from, 
and  who  gave  up  their  riches  to  the  Church,  ay ! 
and  made  a  legion  of  beggars  in  return.  Now  I 
tell  you,  lad,  beware  of  the  cant  of  charitable 
donations,  and  rely  more  on  helping,  comforting, 
and  assuaging  than  giving.  Be  assured  that  you 
do  no  good  in  making  a  beggar  of  a  man,  and 
leading  him  to  believe  in  the  chance  half-guineas 
got  out  of  charity  rather  than  in  the  certain  week 
ly  income  to  be  gained  by  industry.  Be  assured 
that  the  kindliest  act  you  can  do  even  to  a  born- 
beggar  is  not  to  give,  but  to  teach  him  to  be  self- 
reliant  by  developing  in  him  the  means  to  earn. 
So  I  say  to  you,  give  only  where  it  would  be  a 
mockery  to  offer  to  lend,  namely,  to  God's  own 
poor — the  blind,  the  crippled,  the  idiot,  and  the 
infirm.  But  with  the  honest  poor,  be  ever  sum- 


THE   BURDEN    OF   THE   SONG.  547 

ciently  respectful  of  their  independence  and  their 
misery  (for  suffering  should  at  least  meet  with  this 
from  us)  to  treat  them  as  honest,  independent  men, 
and  aid  and  assist  them  in  their  trouble  and  want 
with  any  advance  you  can ;  but  remember  they 
are  not  beggars,  but  workmen,  and  therefore  with 
hold  the  beggar's  dole.  Still,  in  all  you  do,  lad, 
ever  bear  in  mind  that  giving  is  merely  charity 
made  easy  to  the  rich.  It  costs  so  little  to  give 
and  depart,  and  requires  such  a  deal  more  self- 
denial  to  stay  and  tend,  that  those  who  believe 
in  the  all-sufficient  power  of  money  believe  also 
in  the  charity  of  the  pocket  rather  than  the  heart. 
But  do  you  believe,  lad,  there  is  a  benevolence  be 
yond  gifts — the  benevolence  of  wishing  to  see  the 
needy  and  the  suffering  grow  thrifty  and  sober, 
cleanly  and  courteous;  of  wishing  to  see  them 
find  pleasure  in  the  more  graceful  and  refined  en 
joyments  of  our  nature ;  of  wishing  to  see  them 
alive  to  the  beauties  of  the  world  about  them,  as 
well  as  the  graces  and  dignities  of  life  and  action ; 
to  see  them  well-housed,  and  justly  dealt  by,  and 
kindly  treated;  and  not  only  does  true  benevo 
lence  wish  to  see  all  this  compassed,  but  it  strives 
its  best  to  promote  the  end.  This  well-wishing 
and  generous-striving  are  often  more  genuinely 
charitable  than  even  liberality  in  giving.  Never 
theless,  where  there  is  an  urgent  necessity  for  pe 
cuniary  relief,  I  say  to  you,  let  no  base  love  of 
your  money  stand  between  you  and  your  duty ; 
for  if  you  have  been  lucky  enough  to  escape  the 
common  lot  of  want  and  pain,  you  should  at  least 
be  grateful  enough  for  the  favor  that  has  been 
shown  to  you  to  share  a  little  of  the  bounty  with 
those  whom  God  has  left  unprovided  for,  and  left 
them  unprovided  for,  too,  solely  that  you^  and 
they  might  know  the  sweet  friendship  of  befriend- 
ment." 


543  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

"  But,  uncle,  why  shouldn't  I  give  all  my  money 
away  to  the  poor  if  I  please  ?"  asked  the  lad,  who 
didn't  half  like  the  rebuff  he  had  met  with. 

"  Why,  boy,  because  there  is  a  scale  of  heinous- 
ness  in  crime  that  tells  us  there  is  a  scale  of  duty 
in  virtue  also,"  Uncle  Benjamin  made  answer. 
"Parricide  is  felt  to  be  the  greatest  atrocity  of 
which  human  nature  can  be  guilty,  and  we  know 
that  it  is  so  simply  because  we  know  and  feel  that 
it  violates  the  highest  of  all  social  ties — the  tie  be 
tween  child  and  parent.  Hence  the  first  duties  we 
have  to  fulfill  are  the  home  ones,  Ben ;  and  when 
you  have  done  all  that  love  could  wish  or  want 
for  those  of  your  household,  why  then  pass  on  to 
your  friends,  and  do  all  the  duty  of  your  love  to 
them ;  and  after  that,  widen  the  circle  of  your  lov 
ing-kindness,  and  do  what  is  due  to  those  that 
want  and  suffer  in  your  own  neighborhood ;  and 
when  this  is  done,  if  your  heart  have  any  surplus 
love  left,  why  then  extend  your  charity  to  your 
whole  country ;  but  beware,  lad,  beware — " 

The  boy  waited  eagerly  for  the  conclusion  oJP 
the  sentence,  but  Uncle  Benjamin  remained  silent, 
and  merely  shook  his  head  and  smiled  at  the  little 
fellow. 

After  a  while  the  old  man  beckoned  to  the  lad, 
and  said,  as  he  drew  his  godson  to  him, "  Give  me 
your  ear,  Ben.  Beware  of  the  cant  of  loving  the 
whole  world,"  he  whispered.  "  Depend  upon  it, 
there  is  quite  enough  to  do  if  you  do  only  half 
what  you  ought  to  your  relatives,  friends,  and 
neighbors.  Stick  to  the  neighbor,  lad !  stick  to 
the  neighbor !" 

"  Love  your  neighbor  as  yourself,"  murmured 
the  little  fellow. 

"  Ay,  boy ;  and,  depend  upon  it,  you'll  find  you 
have  made  a  second  self,  and  a  better  self,  outside 
yourself  in  so  doing,  for  true  gratitude  is  more 


THE   STAET   IN   LIFE. 

than  equitable ;  it  gives  back  and  adds  an  interest 
that  never  can  be  got  by  law.  Remember  the 
wisest  man  tells  us 

"  'The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain' d,' " 
added  the  godfather,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  his 
godchild's  head : 

"  '  It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  bless'd ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes.' 

And  this,  Ben,  is  the  burden  of  our  song." 

The  little  fellow  flung  himself  upon  his  knees 
on  the  hassock  at  the  old  man's  feet,  and  burying 
his  face  in  his  lap,  took  up  the  words,  and  cried 
aloud  in  thankfulness  for  the  creed, "  c  It  is  twice 
blessed.  It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that 
takes.' " 

Presently  Uncle  Ben  added,  "And  now  the  les 
son  of  life  is  ended,  and  this  the  moral  of  all  our 
teaching :  labor  thriftily  at  your  business,  boy, 
have  graceful  amusements,  and  do  your  duty." 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 

THE    STAET  IN  LIFE. 

A  WEEK  elapsed,  and  Uncle  Ben  was  sitting  up 
late  in  his  own  room  transcribing  into  his  vol 
umes  of  manuscript  sermons  the  short-hand  notes 
of  the  last  important  discourse  he  had  heard,  when 
suddenly  his  little  godson  bounced  into  the  room 
shouting, 

"  Oh,  uncle,  I've  chosen  a  trade  at  last.  What 
do  you  think  it  is  ?  Now  just  you  guess." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  as  much  as  to  say 
the  task  was  hopeless. 

"  Father's  been  so  kind,  you  can't  tell,"  the  boy 


550  YOUNG   BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

rattled  on,  for  he  was  too  elated  with  his  new 
prospects  to  be  other  than  loquacious.  "  He's 
taken  me  round  to  see  all  the  different  kinds  of 
businesses  in  the  town,  and  I  went  with  him  a 
little  way  into  the  country  too,  so  that  I  might  be 
in  a  position,  as  he  said,  to  choose  fairly  for  my 
self.*  Wasn't  it  good  of  him  ?  And  he  told  me, 
do  you  know,  that  he  was  quite  pleased  to  find  I 
had  got  such  altered  views  of  life,  though  he  said 
he  didn't  care  much  about  your — what  ever  were 
the  words  he  used  ? — oh  yes,  your  '  hoity-toity 
notions'  about  the  pleasures  of  poetry,  and  so  on, 
you  know.  Still  he  was  delighted  when  he  found 
that  I  saw  the  errors  of  pride  and  vanity,  and  that 
I  could  understand  how  necessary  it  was  to  be 
trustful  in  the  world,  and  so  on,  uncle." 

The  old  man  merely  smiled  in  his  turn  at  his 
brother's  hard,  utilitarian  theory  of  human  enjoy 
ment  ;  but  the  pair  of  them  had  too  often  discuss 
ed  the  question  for  Uncle  Ben  to  be  at  all  aston 
ished  at  the  "  hoity-toitiness"  that  was  ascribed 
to  him. 

"  Well,  and  what  did  you  see,  my  little  man  ?" 
asked  the  godfather,  as  he  drew  young  Ben  to  his 
side,  and  curled  his  arm  about  the  boy's  waist. 

"  Oh,  I  saw  ever  such  a  lot  of  things,  uncle — 
such  a  lot  that  I  hardly  know  what  I  have  seen, 
I  declare,"  was  the  simple  answer.  "  I  never 
thought  there  was  so  much  work  going  on  in  the 
world  before.  Let  me  see,  now,  how  did  father 
begin  ?  Oh,  first  he  told  me,  as  we  went  along, 
that  the  simplest  form  of  labor  is  that  of  collect 
ing  the  wealth  that  Nature  produces  of  her  own 
accord,  and  this,  he  said,  includes  the  work  of  the 
fisherman,  the  fowler,  and  the  wild  hunter,  as  well 
as  that  of  the  sea-weed  and  manure  collectors,  the 
woodmen,  and  the  wild-flower  gatherers,  together 
*  A  fact. 


THE   START  IN  LIFE.  551 

with  the  pickers-up  of  shells  and  minerals  along 
the  sea-shore." 

"  I  know,  Ben,"  nodded  the  uncle ;  "  all  which 
Master  Josh  got  from  me,  for  it  was  only  the 
other  night  I  was  telling  him  about  it,  after  you 
had  gone  to  bed.  Well,  and  after  that,  I  sup 
pose  he  told  you,  come  the  extractive  processes  of 
wealth-getting  ?" 

"  Certainly ;  but  first  father  said,"  added  the 
youth,  "  that  it  would  be  needless  for  me  to  go 
and  see  any  of  the  work  of  collection,  because 
such  labor  would  be  wholly  unsuited  to  me.  And 
it  was  the  same  with  the  extraction  of  wealth 
from  the  earth,  he  told  me,  for  this  includes  the 
different  forms  of  mining  and  quarrying ;  though, 
if  I  liked,  I  might  see  a  stone-quarry,  for  father 
said  he  knew  many  a  fine  fellow  engaged  at  that 
business." 

"  Go  on,  Ben,"  still  nodded  the  old  man ;  "  and 
then  followed  all  the  different  kinds  of  labor  en 
gaged  in  production  ?" 

"  Yes,  uncle,"  answered  the  youth,  "  such  as 
farming,  grazing,  and  cattle-breeding;  flower- 
gardening,  as  well  as  the  growing  of  fruits  and 
vegetables.  But  I  told  him  I  thought  I  shouldn't 
like  to  belong  to  any  of  those  businesses,  for  1 
didn't  know  why  it  was,  but  I  felt  as  if  I  had  no 
taste  for  them.  But  father  said  that  for  his  part 
he  preferred  a  country  life  to  a  town  one,  and  he 
thought  the  people  in  the  country  more  honest 
and  better  natured  than  those  that  lived  in  the 
cities." 

"  Yes,  exactly  what  I  observed,"  tittered  the 
old  one ;  "  and  next,  of  course,  he  said  there  came 
the  different  trades  that  are  engaged  in  working 
up  the  materials  of  wealth  that  the  others  are 
employed  in  collecting,  extracting,  or  producing 
from  the  soil  ?" 


552  YOUNG  BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

"  So  he  did,"  young  Benjamin  exclaimed ;  "and 
these  he  explained  to  me  might  be  arranged  into 
three  classes,  according  as  they — as  they — " 

"  Why,  according,"  the  godfather  prompted  the 
lad,  "  as  they  are  engaged  in  working  up  the  raw 
materials  into  fabrics  or  stuffs,  and  these  fabrics 
or  stuffs  again  into  articles  or  commodities ;  or 
else  according  as  they  ere  employed  in  improving 
them,  that  is  to  say,  in  strengthening,  finishing,  or 
beautifying  the  fabrics  or  articles  manufactured 
by  the  others." 

"  Yes,  that's  it,  uncle,  that's  it,"  went  on  the 
lad;  "fabric-makers,  commodity-makers,  and  im 
provers — they  were  the  three  great  forms  of  handi 
craft,  father  said,  in  all  civilized  countries.  And 
besides  these,  uncle,  he  told  me  there  are  the  help 
ers,  or  those  whose  business  it  is  either  to  design 
the  work,  or  to  make  every  thing  ready  for  it,  or 
else  to  assist  the  men  while  doing  the  work  itself, 
such  as  architects,  pattern  designers,  draughts 
men — " 

"  And  civil  engineers  too,  all  of  whom  make  it 
a  business  to  plan  the  work  that  has  to  be  done," 
Uncle  Ben  proceeded,  as  he  found  the  little  fellow 
at  a  loss  to  recall  the  difficult  details,  "for  these 
are  the  great  designers  of  the  world's  handicraft ; 
while  the  excavators,  road-makers  and  menders, 
as  well  as  the  riggers  and  stowers  of  ships,  are 
the  fitters  and  preparers  for  other  forms  of  labor, 
even  as  the  hodmen,  the  wheel-drivers,  the  layers- 
on,  the  feeders,  and  stokers,  and,  indeed,  all  those 
lower  grades  of  manual  laborers  (whose  duty  it 
is  to  act  as  the  fetchers,  and  carriers,  and  attend 
ants  of  the  skilled  workmen),  are  merely  the  as 
sistants  of  the  others." 

"  Then  father  told  me,  too,  uncle,"  the  boy 
went  on  again  in  his  turn,  "  that  after  the  goods 
are  manufactured  by  means  of  all  these  different 
kinds  of  work — " 


THE    START   IN   LIFE.  553 

"  And  aids  to  work,"  suggested  the  other — 

"There  is  an  immense  number  of  people  en 
gaged  in  what  he  termed  distributing  them  into 
the  different  markets,  all  over  the  world  some 
times,"  added  the  boy,  "  and  for  this  purpose,  he 
said,  there  is  the  great  machinery  of  the  carrying 
trades" 

"  Including  the  merchant-seamen,"  broke  in  the 
uncle,  "  bargemen,  boatmen,  and  canal-men ;  the 
coachmen,  guards,  and  wagoners;  the  carriers, 
carters,  and  trainmen  (there  were  no  railways 
then) ;  the  truckmen,  porters,  messengers,  and 
postmen ;  the  dock-laborers,  warehousemen,  and 
storekeepers,  as  well  as  the  packers  and  the  like." 

"  And  an  equally  large  number  engaged  in  com 
merce  also,"  resumed  the  lad. 

"  Such  as  ship-owners  and  merchants,"  explain 
ed  Uncle  Ben ;  "  brokers,  factors,  agents,  and  their 
clerks;  wholesale  dealers  and  travelers;  retail 
dealers  and  shopmen ;  auctioneers,  town  travel 
ers,  and  commission  agents ;  tally-men,  hucksters, 
hawkers,  peddlers,  and  packmen,  besides  the  at 
tendants  at  fairs  and  markets." 

"  Oh,  isn't  it  wonderful,"  burst  out  the  little 
fellow,  "  that  there  should  be  so  many  different 
kinds  of  business  in  the  world !  Why,  it  would 
have  taken  us  years  to  have  seen  all  of  them." 

"  Ah !  but  we  have  got  only  half  through  the 
list  yet,  lad,"  urged  the  persistent  old  man. 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  for  father  told  me,"  proceeded 
the  godson,  "  that  over  and  above  these  there  are 
the  capitalists,  the  employers,  and  superintendents, 
who,  though  they  do  none  of  the  work  themselves, 
are  always  engaged  either  in  aiding  and  provid 
ing  it  for  others,  or  else  in  watching  and  testing 
the  work  done ;  and  these,  father  said,  might  be 
called  the  foster-workers  of  society." 

"  Of  course !"  cried  Uncle  Ben,  "  the  very  word 


554  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

I  gave  him,  and  a  good  term  it  is  too,  I  flatter 
myself;  for,  though  the  man  of  money  is  not  di 
rectly  one  of  labor's  own  children,  he  is  certainly 
her  foster-child,  at  once  maintained  by  her,  and 
maintaining  her,  as  he  himself  advances  in  life. 
And  under  this  class,  lad,  we  have  what  are  called 
c  sleeping  partners,'  as  well  as  the  whole  legion  of 
bankers  and  their  clerks,  of  bill-discounters,  bill- 
brokers,  and  scriveners,  mortgagees,  and  pawn 
brokers,  and,  indeed,  all  those  whose  vocation  it  is 
to  lend,  advance,  or  procure  capital  or  money  for 
such  as  stand  in  need  of  it ;  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  is  the  large  class  of  work  superin 
tendents,  as  supervisors,  overlookers,  foremen, 
pay-clerks,  inspectors,  examiners,  viewers,  and  so 
on." 

"  Well,  I  declare,  I  never  thought  society  was 
arranged  in  any  thing  like  the  way  it  is,"  observed 
the  lad. 

"  Ah !  but  we  haven't  done  yet,  little  Mister 
Short-sighted,  I  can  tell  you,"  added  the  old  man, 
as  he  covered  the  boy's  eyes  with  his  hands  to 
show  him  how  blind  he  was. 

"  But  we  must  have  done,  uncle,"  remonstrated 
the  lad,  as  he  broke  away  from  the  old  man ; 
"  there  can't  be  any  thing  else,  for  that  was  all 
father  went  over  to  me." 

"  Can't  there,  indeed,  Mister  Clever  ?"  was  the 
playful  answer.  "  Well,  sir,  I  must  tell  you  what 
your  father  forgot :  that  there  is  still  a  large  class 
that  live,  not  by  making  or  producing  any  thing, 
nor  yet  by  helping  or  encouraging  others  to  do 
so,  but  simply  by  doing  something  for  the  rest  of 
the  world." 

"  Well,  I  can't  see  how  you  can  make  that  out, 
uncle,"  argued  the  boy,  "  for  if  they  don't  pro 
duce  any  thing,  as  you  say,  I  don't  understand 
how  they  can  have  any  thing  to  sell." 


THE   STAET   IN   LIFE. 

"  Indeed,  sir !"  answered  the  godfather,  patting 
the  boy  on  the  cheek ;  "  then  how  do  you  think 
doctors  and  clergymen,  play-actors  and  servants, 
soldiers  and  watchmen,  manage  to  live  ?" 

"  Ay,"  ejaculated  Master  Ben,  pulling  a  long 
face ;  "  and  how  would  you  describe  their  work, 
uncle  ?" 

"  Why, I  should  style  them  servitors"  said  the 
elder  Benjamin,  "  for  the  vocation  of  every  one  of 
them  consists  in  rendering  some  service,  or  doing 
some  good  office  to  others  in  the  community ;  and 
as  such  services  lie  in  ministering  to  the  enter 
tainment,  the  well-being,  or  the  security  of  the 
public,  I  should  class  them  either  as  the  enter 
tainers,  such  as  actors,  authors,  artists,  musicians, 
dancers,  conjurors,  and  even  servants,  all  of  whom 
are  engaged  in  rendering  some  temporary  service 
to  others,  or  else  as  the  advisers  and  instructors, 
like  the  members  of  the  learned  professions,  and 
the  several  teachers  and  professors  of  the  different 
branches  of  learning  and  science ;  or  else  I  should 
group  them  under  the  head  of  public  guardians,  a 
class  which  would  include  the  ministers  of  state, 
the  government  officers,  and  the  soldiers  and  sail' 
ors  engaged  in  the  defense  of  the  country,  as  well 
as  the  legal  authorities,  and  all  their  dependents, 
together  with  the  several  parish  functionaries  of 
the  kingdom.  Of  these  classes,  the  last  two  (the 
advisers  and  guardians)  are  occupied  generally  in 
rendering  some  permanent  service,  or  in  doing 
some  lasting  good  office,  rather  than  (like  the  en 
tertainers)  affording  a  mere  passing  gratification 
to  the  other  members  of  the  community.  And 
with  these,  Ben,  we  come  to  an  end  of  the  several 
vocations  that  make  up  the  complex  machinery 
of  civilized  society." 

"Well, I  declare,"  exclaimed  the  little  fellow, 
"  it  is  a  tangle — such  a  tangle  that  it  seems  al- 


55G  YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FEANKLIN. 

most  impossible  to  unravel  when  a  chap  comes  to 
think  of  it  all." 

"Ay,  but  a  little  orderly  arrangement,  a  few 
mental  pigeon-holes,  can  soon  enable  us  to  have 
the  matter  at  our  fingers'  ends,  and  to  take  a  bird's- 
eye  view  of  the  whole,"  explained  the  uncle.  "  It 
is  this  mere  tidying  work  of  philosophy,  as  I  said 
before,  which  is  the  mainstay  of  the  comprehen 
sive  faculty  of  the  mind.  Thus  we  see  now  that 
the  different  members  of  society  are  engaged  ei 
ther  in  producing  something  directly  or  indirect 
ly,  or  else  in  serving  some  one  temporarily  or  per 
manently  ;  and  that  those  who  are  concerned  di 
rectly  in  production  are  occupied  either  in  getting 
the  materials,  or  in  working  them  up  into  com 
modities,  or  else  in  improving  the  products,  or 
helping  the  workers ;  while  those  who  are  indi 
rectly  concerned  in  the  same  business  are  occu^ 
pied  either  in  distributing  the  goods,  that  is  to 
say,  in  carrying  them  to  their  different  markets, 
or  in  selling  them  to  the  consumers, 'or  else  in 
fostering  the  work  itself  by  providing  the  capital 
or  superintending  the  labor ;  whereas  those  who 
are  concerned  in  doing  some  service  rather  than 
producing  any  thing  for  the  community,  are  oc 
cupied  either  with  entertaining,  or  with  advising 
and  teaching,  or  else  with  protecting  and  guard 
ing  the  public.  And  this,  Ben,  makes  up  the  en 
tire  mechanism  of  civilized  society." 

"I  see, uncle,"  added  the  boy ;  "  it  looks  a  great 
deal  simpler  now  that  we  go  over  it  all  more  rap 
idly." 

"  Well,  Ben,"  asked  his  uncle,  "  and  which  of 
the  wheels  of  this  same  wonderful  piece  of  ma 
chinery  are  you  going  to  work  at,  lad  ?" 

"  Why,  I  really  don't  know  now,  uncle,  under 
which  head  to  place  the  trade  I've  chosen,"  said 
young  Ben,  with  an  air  of  no  little  perplexity. 


THE    START   IN   LIFE.  557 

"  Well,  are  you  going  to  produce  any  thing,  or 
to  serve  any  one,  Ben  ?  that's  question  number 
one,"  interrogated  the  elder  Benjamin. 

"You  see,  uncle,  I'm  not  going  to  produce  any 
thing  exactly,  but  only  to  add  something  to  a 
thing  that's  already  made,"  the  little  man  replied, 
still  boggling  over  the  difficulty. 

"  Oh,  then,  you  are  going  to  be  an  improver  of 
some  product  after  it's  made,  are  you  ?"  inquired 
the  godfather.  "  Well,  are  you  going  to  strength 
en  it,  boy,  to  put  the  finishing  touches  to  it,  or  to 
beautify  it?" 

"  Do  you  know,  I  don't  think  I'm  going  to  do 
any  one  of  the  three.  I'm  merely  going  to  add 
something  to  it,  uncle.  Now  you  guess  what  it 
is,  sir,"  said  the  youth,  kneeling  down  on  the  has 
sock  in  front  of  his  godfather,  and  shaking  his 
forefinger  with  mock  authority  in  his  face. 

The  old  man  thought  of  the  little  fellow's  vow 
that  he  would  be  an  artist ;  so,  with  a  toss  of  his 
head,  he  answered, "  Oh,  I  know — you're  going  to 
be  a  painter — a  house-painter,  perhaps,"  he  added, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  answered  the  youth ;  "  I'm  go 
ing  to  be  a  printer — a  printer  of  books  !  what  do 
you  think  of  that,  uncle  ?" 

"Why, I'm  glad  to  hear  you've  chosen  so  sen 
sibly,  lad,"  the  godfather  made  answer,  as  he  laid 
his  hand  approvingly  on  the  little  fellow's  head. 

"  And  do  you  know  why  I  preferred  that  trade 
above  all  others,  uncle  ?"  the  lad  asked,  as  he  look 
ed  up  affectionately  in  the  old  man's  eyes. 

"  Let  me  hear  your  reason,  Ben,"  said  the  other. 

The  little  fellow  stretched  up  his  hands,  and 
pressed  the  old  man's  cheeks  between  his  palms 
as  he  replied, "  Why,  uncle,  because  I  remembered 
all  the  nice  things  you  told  me  about  the  pleas 
ures  of  good  books,  and  I  thought  if  I  became  a 


YOUNG   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN. 

printer  it  would  be  having  a  business  and  the  best 
of  all  amusements  too." 

"  I'm  glad  my  counsel  has  guided  you  so  well, 
my  child,"  smiled  out  the  old  good  counselor. 

"Yes,  and  what's  more,  uncle,"  added  the  kneel 
ing  boy, "  now  I'm  at  your  feet,  thanking  you  for 
all  your  goodness  to  me,  I'll  promise  you  that 
while  I  do  my  work  I'll  not  forget  my  duty." 

The  simple  expression  of  the  lad's  gratitude 
was  nigh  unmanning  the  kindly-natured  old  boy, 
his  uncle ;  so,  when  he  had  gulped  down  the  ball 
that  seemed  to  rise  in  his  throat,  the  Puritan  god 
father  said,  "  Get  up,  Ben.  I  like  no  one  to  go 
upon  his  knees  to  his  fellows ;"  and  when  he  had 
stood  the  lad  erect  before  him,  and  made  him  look 
full  in  his  face,  he  added,  "  and  now  give  me  your 
hand,  like  friend  to  friend,  and  promise  me  one 
thing  more  before  we  have  done." 

The  boy  gazed  straight  into  his  godfather's  eyes 
as  he  answered,  "  I  will." 

"  Promise  me,  sir,"  went  on  the  other,  "  that 
in  after  life,  when  any  mean  or  savage  thought 
crosses  your  mind,  you'll  think  of  Uncle  Ben,  and 
beat  down  the  ugly  impulse  before  it  has  time  to 
express  itself  in  action." 

The  boy  merely  bowed  his  head,  and  answered, 
"  I  do  promise  you  this." 

And  then  the  old  man  shook  the  youngster 
warmly  by  the  hand  for  a  moment,  and  at  last, 
starting  from  his  seat,  darted  hurriedly  from  the 
room,  crying,  "  Good  -night!  May  God  bless 
you." 


THE   LAST   DAY   AT   HOME.  559 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE    LAST    DAY    AT    HOME. 

UNCLE  BEN  would  have  a  feast  to  celebrate  his 
godson's  start  in  life.  Josiah,  of  course,  was  as 
strong  as  usual  against  "carnal  joys"  and  the 
"  love  of  the  flesh-pots,"  but  the  mother,  mother- 
like,  was  soon  won  over  to  the  gastronomic  the 
ory  of  boyish  happiness  (for,  Puritan  as  was  her 
stock,  she  had  still  all  a  matron's  instinctive  be 
lief  in  the  loving-kindness  of  plum-cakes  and  pud 
dings — so  long  as  they  were  not  made  too  rich, 
she  added)  ;  so  the  united  forces  of  wife  and 
brother  were  brought  to  bear  against  the  half- 
ascetic  creed  of  the  stern  old  tallow-chandler,  and 
even  he  (though  he  had  all  the  martyr  element  in 
his  veins,  and  could  have  borne  the  stake. with 
out  wincing)  wanted  hardness  of  nature  sufficient 
to  hold  out  against  brother  Ben's  kindly  banter 
about  brother  Josh's  own  early  love  of  pudding, 
and  the  wife's  insidious  coaxing  and  motherly 
appeals. 

Accordingly,  a  day  for  the  feast  was  soon  fixed, 
and  the  thirteen  members  of  the  Franklin  family 
all  duly  apprised  and  bidden  to  the  merry-making, 
and  in  a  few  days  afterward  the  dame  was  again 
engaged  in  thumbing  patches  of  lard  over  the 
broad  sheet  of  paste  that  was  to  roof  in  another 
apple  and  pumpkin  pie  almost  as  big  as  a  spong- 
ing-bath.  Then  there  was  the  like  brisket  of 
corned  beef  wabbling  away,  with  the  dough-nuts 
bumping  against  the  lid,  on  the  hob,  and  another 
turkey  and  pair  of  canvas-back  ducks  twirling  in 
front  of  the  huge  kitchen  fire,  and  making  the 


560  YOUNG    BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN. 

whole  house  savory  with  their  tantalizing  per 
fume.  Deborah,  too,  filled  another  gallon  meas 
ure  of  dried  apples  and  peaches  out  of  the  store- 
closet,  to  be  duly  stewed  for  the  supper,  and  on 
the  dresser  stood  another  bowl  of  curds  as  big  as 
a  kettle-drum,  and  another  huge  jar  of  honey  to 
serve  the  children  for  dessert. 

And  the  day  was  not  far  advanced  before  the 
boys  and  girls,  and  the  grown  young  men  and 
their  wives  and  little  ones,  all  came  swarming 
back  again  to  the  hive.  Little  Esther  and  Martha 
came  first  this  time,  one  bringing  a  bead  purse, 
and  the  other  a  knitted  worsted  comforter  for 
young  Ben ;  and  scarcely  had  they  kissed  the  lit 
tle  fellow,  and  wished  him  every  success  in  life, 
before  Jabez  and  Nehemiah,  the  carpenter's  and 
mason's  boys,  came  tearing  over  the  house,  the 
former  laden  with  the  promised  rabbit-hutch ;  and 
after  them  came  Zachary,  the  ship-builder,  with  his 
motherless  little  boy  as  before ;  and  John  Frank 
lin,  the  tallow-chandler  from  Rhode  Island,  and 
his  young  Quakeress  wife  with  her  infant  in  her 
arms ;  and  Abiah,  the  sister  who  had  married  the 
trader  in  furs  and  beaver-skins,  but  who,  to  the 
great  disappointment  of  the  boys,  was  now  away 
on  his  travels  among  the  Indian  tribes ;  Thomas, 
the  eldest  brother,  and  hereditary  smith  of  the 
family,  came  too,  and  Ebenezer,  the  young  farmer, 
with  his  intended  bride  by  his  side,  as  well  as  sis 
ter  Ruth,  the  captain's  wife,  with  her  little  brood 
of  chicks  at  her  heels — indeed,  all  were  there  as  at 
the  previous  feast,  even  including  James  the  print 
er,  to  whom  little  Ben  was  going  to  be  bound,  and 
Uncle  Ben's  own  son,  the  cutler — all  the  Franklins 
were  there  excepting  poor  Josiah  the  outcast. 

And  the  merry-making  and  the  games  were  as 
hearty  as  ever ;  and  when  the  supper  was  over,  and 
the  bowls  of  Dame  Franklin's  celebrated  "  lambs'- 


THE  LAST  DAY  AT   HOME.  561 

wool"  placed  upon  the  table,  Uncle  Ben  bade  all 
present  fill  their  mugs  to  the  brim,  and  gave  them 
the  toast  of  the  evening — "  Health  and  success  to 
young  Benjamin  Franklin ;  and  may  he  live  to  be 
the  man  we  wish  him." 

The  candle-store  in  Hanover  Street  fairly  shook 
again  with  the  volley  of  brothers'  cheers  that  fol 
lowed  the  sentiment ;  and  when  silence  was  com 
paratively  restored,  the  little  fellow  stood  up,  in 
obedience  to  a  summons  from  his  uncle,  and  made 
his  first  speech  like  a  man — a  speech  that  was  full 
of  faith  and  hope  for  the  future,  and  regret  for  the 
past — a  speech  that  made  the  good  old  mother 
weep  tears  of  joy,  and  the  father  shake  him  warm 
ly  by  the  hand,  and  bid  him  "  God  speed ;"  and  a 
speech,  too,  which  set  all  the  sisters  hugging  and 
kissing  him,  and  vowing  "  he  was  their  own  dear 
Benny,  that  he  was." 

And  when  all  was  quiet  in  the  house,  and  Ben, 
and  Jabez,  and  Nehemiah  were  up  in  their  room, 
playing  with  Master  Toby,  the  pet  Guinea-pig,  as 
they  prepared  for  bed,  little  Benjamin  cried  sud 
denly  as  he  was  taking  oif  his  shoes, "  Oh  !  I  for 
got  ;  I  haven't  wished  Uncle  Ben  good-night." 

So  down  he  scampered,  unshod  as  he  was,  and, 
with  only  his  little  knee-breeches  and  his  shirt  to 
cover  him,  burst  suddenly  into  the  old  man's  room. 

Uncle  Ben  was  on  his  knees  beside  his  bed ;  and 
as  the  little  fellow  crept  up  and  stooped  to  kiss- 
him,  he  felt  that  the  cheek  of  his  best  friend  in  the 
world  was  all  wet  with  tears — 

Tears  that  the  godson  never  forgot — no,  not 
even  when  the  practice  of  the  godfather's  philos 
ophy  had  made  him  the  first  embassador  from  the 
American  Republic. 

THE    END. 

NN 


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